


there's bones in my closet (but you hang stuff anyway)

by ocean_blueeyes



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brief Depiction of Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Learning to Love Each Other, M/M, Post-Canon, an unfortunate reliance on flashbacks, domestic life, i'm incapable of writing a linear narrative, implied PTSD, seeking treatment, undiagnosed mental illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27998118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocean_blueeyes/pseuds/ocean_blueeyes
Summary: Despite Italy, despite the hippies, despite finally having Cliff—despite everything, Rick is still Rick. That is, until they both decide it doesn’t have to be that way.Or, what happened in 1970.
Relationships: Cliff Booth/Rick Dalton
Comments: 22
Kudos: 30





	1. you're the only friend i need (prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> After years of writing for myself, this is my first actual published work. I've been tinkering around with this for about six months now, and I'm deciding to put it out there as a gift to myself for getting accepted into grad school. I hope you like it.
> 
> Story title comes from "Guillotine" by Jon Bellion ft. Travis Mendes.
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Ribs" by Lorde.

Much like how dreams tended to operate, Rick couldn’t remember the exact timeline of events that ended up with him sitting in Sharon Tate’s living room. He could recall why his clothes were damp and wrinkled, why his muscles ached from adrenaline. He remembers watching Cliff get carried away by an ambulance as red and blue lights illuminated the side of his house.

Then he blinked and found himself sitting on the carpet leaned against the front of a couch surrounded by a small group of men and women considerably younger than him. Sharon—she insisted that Rick called her Sharon instead of him defaulting to his old Midwestern manners and calling her “Miss Tate”—shone radiantly amongst them all, benevolent and charming. The golden girl. She showed delighted surprise at Jay inviting their neighbor up to their house, even more surprise upon recognizing just who he was. When Rick reached out his hand to shake hers, Sharon instead pulled him down into a hug, sincere on her end, awkward on Rick’s. He returned a gentle embrace with his arms, careful not to squeeze her in her delicate condition. She was warm, skin soft and supple. Her hair smelled like honey and lemon. Oh, how he’d kill for a sour right now.

Well, he _had_ killed that night but for different reasons.

While Jay was leading the three of them further into the house, Sharon quietly confided in Rick that she hadn’t been having a good time that night, but his presence lightened her mood entirely. When she turned away to enter the living room, Rick grimaced at the fact that he could almost say the same thing about meeting her. He and Cliff had gotten blind drunk for a reason they both secretly hated. His house was a wreck. His wife was a drugged mess. And Cliff was thanked for his service with a friendly knife stuck in his leg, faithful to the end. What was it that Rick had told Cliff right before he left? _“You’re a good friend, Cliff.”_ God, what the hell was he thinking?

It was too easy to smile and laugh when appropriate, he’d been doing it for years at all the events he was forced into attending. But usually when he’d had his social fill, he’d join Cliff on the side lines. Well, he would at the ones where Cliff was also invited. When he wasn’t, Rick got to call it early and scamper off to find Cliff sitting in his Caddie just outside the venue, waiting to take him home…

Waiting to give him that smile reserved just for him…

These young folks were nice, but Rick wished Cliff were here with him. But Cliff wasn’t here. He was carted off to the other side of town, probably knocked out on morphine with a hole in his hip that’ll eventually join the ranks of all his other scars. A hole that will probably destroy his career in stunting— _”Oh, lord,”_ his mind lamented.

Like usual, Rick found himself spiraling into a bad mood, completely on his own accord. He was retroactively relieved that he had picked a spot next to the next best thing to having Cliff, and that was Sharon. They were both like sunshine in their own way.

Sharon smiled beautifully, cheeks rosy and illuminated with laughter and impending motherhood. When she giggled or told a story, she always wanted to put her hand on someone’s arm or shoulder, keeping her feet on the ground so as to not float away in bliss. She had a kindness that filled every space in the room, filled everyone’s lungs deeper and more deliciously and satisfyingly than weed smoke and oxygen. If Rick were more of a religious man, he suspected that this is how people view their saints. Or maybe he was just high and slowly becoming crossfaded from all the alcohol still in his system.

So much for his booze not needing no buddy.

Cliff, Rick’s own personal Apollo. Sculpted to the liking of the Greeks, being in his presence made Rick feel like a kitten finding the one midmorning sun patch on the floor. Embarrassingly, he had to also admit just how well his face fit in Cliff’s neck when he needed him. And Cliff always allowed it, save for when they were in public. That’s when his tough love came out. And Rick understood that, hell, was grateful for it. Cliff’s laid back approach to life perfectly balanced his mysteries, but he told Rick that if he ever truly wanted to know about his past, he’d divulge.

Rick didn’t need to know every detail to accept Cliff as his best friend. It was a two-way street anyway; Cliff didn’t even know everything about Rick’s past. They both chose to keep it that way.

Cliff did more than just carry Rick’s load. Cliff carried _Rick_. And Rick was throwing him out onto the street like an old dog, swatting his hind end with the broom. _Go on, git!_ Was it too late to backpedal? To take it back like it never happened? To continue being best buds. To drive around and play with Brandy in the backyard. Was he afraid of appearing desperate? No fucking way, Cliff had witnessed his desperation many times. Maybe…

Maybe it was because backpedaling meant tripping over your own heels. Backpedaling meant you had no regard for the path behind your head. Backpedaling meant bumping into people. Bumping into people meant you never had your eyes on them in the first place.

The gold band on his left hand began to burn. Not enough to hurt, but enough to dig its way into his brain. A little irritable, like the mosquito bites he used to get in the summer as a kid. Why did it feel like little bugs were crawling around in his ears, in his skull—

Rick felt a slender hand on his shoulder. Incrementally he realized he was boring holes into the ceiling with his eyes, incessantly spinning the ring around and around on his finger, rhythmic, hypnotic. He curled his toes in the carpet before finally tipping his head back to see Sharon smiling down at him.

“Penny for your thoughts, Rick?” she asked gently. The others were deeply engrossed in the record player or a hazy doze. He could feel himself blink slowly, untangling his synapses like…

Like fucking spaghetti noodles. Son of a bitch.

“They ain’t w-worth that much,” Rick heard himself say. Too many body parts cracked and popped when he pushed himself up from the floor. Sharon grabbed his hand and pulled him back down onto the couch beside her.

“That’s not true.” She had this peculiar expression, one of steady concentration. Her eyes flicked back and forth, studying him. “How old are you?”

Rick scrunched up his face at the question but then remembered it wasn’t rude to ask a man his age. And he wasn’t no spring chicken.

“Thirty-nine.” His voice rang surprisingly clear in his own ears now. Sharon hummed and tapped his forehead.

“A gold mine,” she asserted.

“More like a coal m-mine.”

“Coal is still valuable.” Her sincerity was adorable, trying to appease the washed-up cowboy.

_You say that now but wait until the coal dries up and the town dies. Then come talk to me about valuable._

“I guess,” Rick lied. Her eyes brightened at that, having accomplished some unknown mission. She squeezed his hand, the one without the wedding ring, and left her perch on the cushion beside him.

“I love seeing you in my house. I love new friends. If you need anything, just ask me. Or Jay. We’d love to do whatever it is.”

_Love, love, love._

_Friends._

_Just_ ask.

_“I could be one pool party away from starring in a Polanski movie!”_

Rick was now painfully sober, throat tightening. He could only nod.

“Yes, ma’am,” he wheezed.

Satisfied at picking the dust off his brain, Sharon and the others had wandered off into another room so her friends could roll another joint and continue talking, leaving Rick and Jay where they were seated on the couch.

And Rick was miserable. Stupid Cliff, fucking idiot. Too high to realize he was a knight in white denim armor. They could’ve been passed out by now, melancholic but otherwise unscathed.

_Why do you always have to rescue me? Could’ve just let me get shot and killed like a decent person. I would’ve forgiven you._

Jay coughed off to Rick’s side, startling him out of his silent beratement of Cliff’s unflappable heroism. Rick remembered whose house he was in, heart hammering against his ribs. He wished he knew what time it was. He wished he was asleep, that this was just some horrible dream and that when he woke up, he’d be beside Francesca and Cliff would be safe on the living room couch with Brandy on the floor beneath him.

The air was tense. Sharon’s departure let Rick’s black hole of despair suck the life out of the room. It made him self-conscious, he knew it was a feeling that was contagious and palpable to others. Rick briefly thought it would be the time Jay would softly thank him for his company before showing him the door.

Jay thought Rick would finally build up his courage to head back to his ransacked home, nervously mentioning that he didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

Neither came to fruition as they continued to steal glances at each other in the awful silence. Instead Rick went to push back his hair with his hand, a tick that came out when he was uncomfortable, but he stopped short, scowling for a second while a resolution came to mind. He wet his lips and clasped his hands in his lap, intentionally allocating energy towards keeping his leg from bouncing. Shit, this was going to be embarrassing, but he needed to immediately start severing ties to this night and what happened, aching for normalcy.

“Can I ask you something, Jay?”

Jay turned towards him, relieved that one of them broke the silence. Twice as relieved that it didn’t have to be him.

“Of course, man.”

Rick blushed as the inquiry fought to escape his mouth, and all he could do was breathe deep in order to spit it out.

“Could you cut m-my hair?”

Jay smiled in a way that was fond and braced his hands against his knees to take to his feet. He liked Rick. Rick was another Hollywood nutjob like the rest of them.

“Come with me,” he stated simply.

Rick liked Jay. Jay didn’t care about his disjointed ways.

Normally, he would think that Jay just hanging around Sharon’s house even though she was married was strange. But he realized that wasn’t true. Because Rick wanted desperately for Cliff to just hang around _his_ house even though _he_ was married.

he didn’t have time to think that much about it because Jay had led the two of them to the bathroom. He never imagined that one could be described as “chic,” but Rick never considered himself to be totally up on the times.

Maybe that explains Francesca's microscopic scowl upon entering his house for the first time. Rick had seen it, though, and could feel a strike being filed against him already. But that was the least of their problems now. And the worst of their problems, as the only thing worse than behind-the-times décor is your living room being completely destroyed.

The hairs at the nape of his neck began to itch.

_Cut them off. Cut them off. Cut them off. Cut them OFF—_

“Take a seat, man,” Jay invited cordially, as if the request and subsequent obligation was run of the mill business for the both of them. There was a chair with its back to the sink. Jay placed a rolled-up towel on the edge of the marble counter before grabbing a couple bottles from shelves.

“W-what’re all those for?” Jay shrugged, grabbing his scissors.

“Dunno. Figured you’ve had a rough night and would like the whole deal. Wash, cut. All of it.”

It was one too many acts of kindness too soon after the most horrific event of Rick’s life, like someone waiting on your front porch for someone in the family to die before immediately ringing the doorbell with a fruit basket. He should be asleep. He should be at home. He should be bawling his eyes out, but they were surprisingly dry. He was too tired to cry, jetlagged and a little dizzy.

Rick sat down in the chair and folded his hands in his lap, still bashful.

“Mighty kind. You don’t have to do all that.”

Jay smiled genuinely at Rick’s traditional sense of sentiment. Rick might’ve been a Hollywood nutjob, but he was still different than everyone else Jay met. He seemed secretly grateful for everything, like he didn’t believe he deserved any of it. Hell, for saving their little neck of the woods, Jay was more than glad to give his services free of charge, especially to someone who had a decent foothold in television’s young history.

“Just think of it as a thank you for everything you’ve done.”

Rick wasn’t about to argue that the list wasn’t very long, especially when the warm water against his scalp felt nice. Jay casually massaged in shampoo with more care than Rick had ever given to his hair in his entire life. Now he understood why ladies enjoyed going to the salon so much. Jay took his time rinsing out all the suds. He chuckled lightly to himself.

“Hm. Interesting.”

“What?” Rick opened his eyes about halfway to offer his attention.

"Nothing. I just didn’t know Jake Cahill had a widow’s peak.”

“Well...I imagine you wouldn’t’ve. Cowboy hat, y’know,” Rick explained in a lazy tone. Not to mention that he usually kept his hair styled in a way that disguised it. It was one of the more obscure things that he was insecure about.

“I guess you’re right.”

Rick could tell that Jay truly loved his job if he was this chipper about washing and cutting someone’s hair in the middle of the night. He understood the feeling. On the rare occasion when they had night shoots, Rick always felt more awake than he did during the day. While waiting for setup or in between shots, he and Cliff would sit together and talk. The temperatures were always much more bearable when the sun was down. And although Cliff was more of an early bird, he was more than willing to enable Rick’s night owl tendencies. In this reverie, he missed the youth they had. Both of them were starting to get up there in age.

Jay towel dried Rick’s hair but kept it damp enough for cutting. Moving along, he equipped his scissors to begin clipping away the errant European inches.

“I thought I saw an ambulance leaving,” Jay asserted. It wouldn’t be a proper trim without small talk. “No one got hurt, did they? Well, besides the, uh, intruders.”

Rick wanted to glance at him but couldn’t with Jay positioned over his shoulder. He had to stay as still as possible.

“M-my friend. He got—” Rick found it hard to say, his throat clicking as he choked trying to swallow his words. “He got s-stabbed.”

At the mention, Jay’s eyes seemed to bug out of his head, scissors poised midair almost like they were gawking right along with him. But Rick couldn’t really see it.

“Stabbed? Well, is he alright?”

“He will be,” Rick started. _Yes. Cliff’s gonna be just fine. If he knew you were worrying about him so much, he’d tell you to knock it off._ “Just kinda got him in the-in the leg. In the hip.”

“Still! That’s gotta hurt like shit, yeah?” Rick only nodded a little in agreeance, he couldn’t speak from experience.

“He’d say he’s used to it by now,” Cliff answered in Rick’s voice. It was almost like he was there with them, leaning against the doorframe with that stupid grin on his face. Rick pretended his mind didn’t imagine a mop of blond hair out of the corner of his eye.

“Who the hell is this buddy of yours, Rick? Facing crazy killers head on and not being fazed by stab wounds?”

Rick couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up out of him. The description was completely incredulous but completely correct. The feeling didn’t last very long, however. Rick coughed as sobriety of the situation swallowed him again.

“That would be one M-Mr. Cliff Booth.”

“The guy who killed his wife?”

“The _stuntman_ ,” Rick corrected immediately, almost pinning Jay to the wall with a side-eyed glare. People’s gut reaction was to still impugn Cliff’s honor without even knowing the man first. Cliff claimed it stopped bothering him a long time ago, but Rick still always showered Cliff with these ridiculous little superlatives. _“You’re my best friend, y’know? You’re th-the only motherfucker who gets me.”_

And Cliff always let Rick do this because Cliff could very easily do the same. He just chose to express it in different ways. But they were both each other’s only real friend.

The hairdresser’s cheeks flushed as he realized the childish nature of the accusation.

“I’m sorry. That was rude of me.” Jay went back to snipping at Rick’s ends. Rick chose not to respond. He didn’t want to add any more fuel to that fire and closed his eyes. If things worked out the way he wanted them to, maybe both Jay and Sharon would get the chance to meet Cliff, maybe feel the same way about him that Rick did. Cliff had that impervious charisma.

Or maybe Rick simply had a desire for Cliff to see that his positive influence spread further than he chose to believe. The world was better because Cliff was in it. And Rick’s immediate existence would improve from it right now as well, that creeping loneliness was already beginning to set in.

God, why was it that the only one who could comfort him about Cliff’s absence was Cliff himself?

“You still with me, Rick?” Jay asked quietly, noticing Rick’s mind had wandered off again. Rick hummed and sat up a little straighter. “Is this the way you want it?” Rick cocked an eyebrow as he waded through his confusion. He had been thinking so hard that he wouldn’t be surprised if his thoughts were audible. Surely Jay wasn’t talking about—?

Jay gestured to the mirror. Oh, right, he was getting his hair cut. A cursory glance revealed that Jay had trimmed it back to where it was in February, and for once in about forty-eight hours he was satisfied with _something_.

“Y-yeah. It’s perfect, Jay.” That earned a small grin from Jay. He was relieved that his comment about Cliff didn’t cause any hard feelings. He didn’t want this to be the last time he saw Rick around. “I-I don’t have my wallet with me, but I can pay you—”

Jay cut him off with a wave.

“You don’t need to; I was happy to do it. Besides, now I have Jake Cahill with me now. Or maybe Sgt. Mike would be more like it, considering.”

“Oh, Jesus—you saw that?” Rick gasped. His eyebrows furrowed, almost horrified. A very specific form of dread always resurfaced whenever anyone brought up _The 14 Fists of McCluskey_. Jay chuckled.

“When it came out, yeah. Who could forget a climax like that?”

“Wish I could,” Rick muttered before letting his face relax. He guessed that he couldn’t be so scornful towards the Nazi burning bastard. The very real, not-a-prop flamethrower had contributed to saving their asses that night.

“What was that?”

“Nothin’,” Rick dismissed with a small smile. “Thanks, Jay. You and Sharon have been too-too kind to this old fucker.” Rick stuck his hand out for Jay to grab and they shook on it.

“Pleasure’s all mine, man. Don’t be a stranger. Maybe soon we’ll get to meet that tough as shit buddy of yours. And the missus.”

“I’m su-sure they’d be happy to.”

They had the chance to continue sharing the usual pleasantries while Jay escorted Rick to the door. Once it closed behind him, he was plunged into darkness. Light pollution from the city leached up over the treetops, harbinger to the approaching dawn, and Rick finally felt just how exhausted he was. He took his time meandering down Polanski’s driveway and grew queasy as the dim lights from his own house began to come into view.

His house used to be his little haven; a ranch-style sanctuary tucked away in the hills. But now it was a mess of damaged furniture and spattered with blood as if they had cast Jackson Pollock in _Psycho_. He was left with the card of a cleaning service, the one he was staring at now as he stood just inside his front door. They wouldn’t be able to come out until later in the morning.

And Rick realized he hated red so fucking much.

He crept around the perimeter of the living room until he reached the hallway. But one jiggle of his bedroom door knob revealed it was locked tight.

“Right,” he muttered and pinched the bridge of his nose until he saw stars. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he could at the very least try to clean himself up a little bit.

Rick slipped into the bathroom, squinting against the harsh vanity lights. His clothes had dried in the hours since, but he still wiggled out of them. The tile felt too cold under his feet and goosebumps ran up his legs. He stood at the sink, palms braced against the edge of the counter and finally took the time to scrutinize his reflection in the mirror.

Jay had actually done an excellent job with the haircut, obviously. Perhaps he knew deep down that Rick still valued a tame pompadour despite them slowly going out of fashion as the decade crawled along. However, the longer he gazed the more Rick realized that his hair was just about the only thing he liked about what he saw. The brightness of the lights accentuated the beginnings of creases and wrinkles, the not-so-whites of his eyes. Standing there in his boxers, he still had a solid build, but it was starting to melt.

In the living room, he knew there was a sizable blood stain that had leaked out of Cliff’s hip while he laid face-first on the carpet. His dog had ripped a man to shreds. A can of her dog food smashed in a woman’s face. Every wooden surface seemed to have a dent in it the size of a human skull.

All for the man who told Cliff that, even with his simple, limited lifestyle, he was too expensive to keep around. Jay’s voice echoed through Rick’s tired brain.

_“Is this the way you want it?”_

“No,” Rick said out loud to no one but himself. It was getting harder to look at himself. “I don’t want to m-move to Toluca Lake.” A breath, his arms and frame quaking. “I don’t w-want to live in a condo.” A shakier breath, the words feeling acrid on his tongue. “I don’t—shit.” His voice cracked and he screwed his eyes shut. “I don’t want Cliff to leave me.”

Rick sank to his knees, arms still perched on the counter. A deep cough rattled out of his lungs before his breathing became hitched and disjointed. But still, no tears, just frustrated sadness that merely mimicked his brand of pathetic sobbing. He balled up one of his fists and banged it against the countertop, bringing the “Why me?” that was building up behind his teeth to a halt. Too theatrical. Rick instead finished taking a seat on the floor, turning so his back was pressed against the cabinet doors. He had checked off just about everything on his to-do list for a mental breakdown. Now all that was left was to “sit deadly still and feel sorry for yourself.”

And Rick did just that, all the way until the sun rose over the horizon and the door to the bedroom became unlocked.


	2. i am lonely but you can free me (all in the way that you smile)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cliff reflects a bit over the past six weeks since the home invasion while waiting for the sun to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little longer than its first draft, but I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Tell Me Why" by Neil Young.

Soft rays of light streamed in through the part in the curtains, bathing the bedroom in delicate swatches. Silent, like an audience listening to a monologue, a natural spotlight for the tiny dust particles to dance around each other in. The quiet realization of the consciousness, and Cliff was awake. His internal clock was too persistent, always kicking in high gear and conditioned by years in the military and Hollywood call times. Well, call times in the traditional sense but also a new kind of call time crafted in the last two years or so—the one that required him to get up before dawn to make the trip across town to get Rick up and ready to make _his_ call times.

These quiet sacrifices ruined him, no longer able to sleep past six in the morning unless under the influence. Sleeping in was impossible, unless you were Rick. In that case, sleeping in was something he excelled at even without the drink.

But those new call times were now much easier, as the "across town" part of the operation had been eradicated a month prior.

The "Fucking Hippie Invasion," as Rick took to calling it, left Cliff in the hospital for a solid two weeks, with an additional four weeks of outpatient therapy for his hip after he could bear weight on it. That length of time seemed unnecessary to Cliff, who would’ve preferred for them to just stitch him up and send him home with a pocket full of pills. But given his track record, and possibly his age, they were probably keeping him under their watchful eye for his own good. Men like Cliff didn’t take too well to being laid up, and Cliff had to admit that they were correct to assume that he would’ve tried to get up and going before he was ready. So with all their talk of a possible limp and chronic pain, the doctors kept him hostage, promising better results. Even though it meant having to call the nurse for everything, including to take a piss. Pricks.

That first morning, Rick came bearing bagels like he promised, and a haircut. Cliff never asked when Rick had the availability to go get one, given their timeline of events. He didn’t mind though, Rick looked more like his old self and Cliff liked it. He hadn’t lost _everything_ with their trip to Italy.

Every day, Rick came to visit him, usually bringing with him some kind of treat—food, contraband cigarettes, and just maybe a sip or two of Cliff's favorite whiskey. In a small hip flask, too, funny enough. But the moral support alone wasn’t enough to abate his restlessness.

“Rick, save me,” Cliff begged on the third day after a hobbled trip to bathroom, assisted by a nurse he towered over.

“So I can help you with that?” Rick asked, eyebrows playfully arched as he sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Sorry, bud. I have n-no say in this.”

Cliff scowled, staring up the ceiling. He couldn’t even strongarm Rick into switching on that small town boyish charm-turned-respectable-fame to convince the doctors against this extended stay. That lilting cadence and exaggerated diphthong was enough to get Cliff to do things he didn’t necessarily want to, so why wouldn’t it work on medical professionals as well? And he knew Rick would prefer to not have to come in every day. Hospitals made him uncomfortable for reasons he never explained.

Ultimately, all Cliff could do was conclude that he’d just have to be satisfied with his friend’s company for the time being. Besides, Rick could’ve— _should’ve_ —been spending his mornings feeling up his shiny, new wife. Lord knows that’s what they’d done in Italy. Something made Rick have a change in heart, remembering just who’s been at his side this whole time.

Neither had any intention of bringing it up.

Rick looked pensively down at the lukewarm black liquid, swirling it around in the cup.

“Th-this stuff isn’t that great,” he said, hoping to change the subject. “Worse than the shit you get on set.”

“Well, cowboy. Spring me out of here and I’ll make you all the coffee you want. Just how you like it.”

Rick rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small grin that tugged at his lips. Cliff wasn’t going to let go, but he had his own ace up his sleeve.

“Nice try, Cliff. You’ll be discharged before you know it. It’ll just take some time.” Rick clapped a warm hand on Cliff’s shoulder before settling back into the bedside chair. “Besides—” He took a quick glance over his shoulder before pulling out a cigarette and his lighter. “Can’t make me my coffee out in that trailer of yours.” He punctuated his astute observation with the metallic clink of a zippo being snapped shut.

A steady stream of smoke was blown out of the corner of his mouth and a steely gaze locked with Cliff’s, audacious. Cliff knew Rick could blow smoke rings and usually did on the rare occasion where he felt carefree and on top of the world. The confidence without the bravado made the whole thing feel staged.

A pattern was emerging. Rick, once so sure of his inability to keep Cliff around, was beginning to make less and less subtle hints about wanting him to stay instead. Cliff bided his time by gesturing with his fingers that he wanted a drag and Rick complied. Cliff pulled, letting the poison cloud sit comfortably in the back of his throat, then blew his own stream. Two dragons in a meeting that was suffocatingly business-like.

“You’re askin’ me to come stay with you?” Cliff murmured. He passed the cigarette back. Rick held it gingerly between his fingers and pretended to thoughtfully consider the question. His coy little play was becoming slightly too rehearsed for Cliff’s liking, Rick didn’t stutter once when making his proposition. If it was an act, Cliff wanted nothing to do with it. He was a stuntman, a hired stand-in whose ability to remain seamless and unseen illustrated his chops in the big game of Hollywood. He had no patience for the fabricated mysticism that surrounded everyone else in the industry. He only could tolerate Rick’s because its absence is what defined their friendship. Rick didn’t _have_ to put on that air, he felt relaxed around Cliff.

Additionally, the people who dicked around with Cliff’s feelings didn’t stay attached to him for very long, and Rick knew that. Him suddenly changing his mind about Cliff’s place in his life, although on par with his character, was making Cliff real impatient. If Rick truly was asking, he needed to just say it in the sincere manner that Rick was certainly capable of.

“M-maybe I am.” Rick’s gaze had wandered back up to Cliff’s and remained unwavering. And that was just about all the unflinching candor he needed to be satisfied once more.

Cliff huffed and turned his attention elsewhere; his ruffled feathers began to relax with the softening of his demeanor. Rick was good at that, getting him worked up in quiet, unnoticeable ways before smoothing everything back down in the same breath. It was now his turn to think, Rick having put the ball in Cliff’s court. A bit of a control freak, he didn’t do that often.

There had been a breach in Rick’s boldness. Rick’s answer, although leaving much to the imagination, was genuine. It was the closest he dared to get about making the request outright. Rick had an unusual knack of being able to virtually smell rejection in the air. He’d had plenty of practice. Regardless, he still put it out in the open and Cliff had to give him that, at least.

The opportunity was right there, all he had to do was grasp it. But Cliff, already a suspected murderer, didn't want "homewrecker" to be added to the list. As to be expected, Rick was playing this off as if nothing had changed between them, but Cliff was too practical to be one in denial. There were too many confounding factors. If he accepted, he knew it wouldn’t work the way Rick was wanting it to.

Rick was sweet because he believed in fairytale endings, but Cliff knew that if he tried to slip back in, whatever happened between him, Rick, and Francesca would perpetually keep the situation from ending. And it wouldn’t be happily ever after, either.

So, Cliff decided to rip the band aid off. There was no use continuing this petty game of footsie.

"Sorry, partner. You know I can't do that."

And perhaps his heart broke a little when Rick's face inevitably fell, the sparkle leaving his eyes. He looked down at his cup, flicking the still-burning cigarette butt into the last dregs of his coffee that had gone cold. The filter paper grew soggy the longer it sat in the muddy concoction and Rick’s stomach churned but he couldn’t look at Cliff. He ran his finger around the rim, mumbling an almost imperceptible, "Okay." His little act, everything that he had built up over the past few minutes, had been dropped so fast it had a visceral feeling that lingered in the air, and he didn’t bother trying to hide the fact that he was hurt by Cliff’s decision.

Nevertheless, it was a rare instance of Rick accepting that he wasn’t getting what he wanted. But it didn’t stop him from asking again the following day and the days after that.

These little visits were cyclical. Rick would show up with his little token of gratitude, which they'd usually split between the two of them. They'd shoot the shit for a while, just like old times. As if Rick wasn't married and his house hadn't been broken into and they didn't have hippie blood on their hands and a decade together hadn't passed them by. Rick would make his proposal, more candidly, and Cliff would politely reject. Rick would fall silent for a minute or two before changing the subject, though without the same joviality he had upon arrival. And they forced themselves to be contented in the ensuing awkwardness until Rick gave his quiet goodbye with a brotherly pat on Cliff’s shoulder.

Cliff wished Rick would stop coming in the mornings. The sad, nervous energy he left with permeated sickeningly and only made the rest of the day drag its feet. And Rick was the one telling Cliff to be patient in all this? Fucker. He needed to get out of here before this frivolous resentment festered any further.

The cycle was broken on Cliff's penultimate day in the hospital when Rick showed up thirty minutes later than usual. His face was blanched as if he happened across a ghost, the corners of his mouth pinched into that troubled almost-pucker. It was so jarring and unusual that even the nurse was concerned.

"Are you alright, Mr. Dalton?" she inquired, placing her hand on his arm. Rick suppressed a flinch but barely turned to face her.

"Uh, y-yes, ma'am. Thank ya kindly." He certainly didn’t sound like it. His speech was just as tense as his form, his accent coming out thicker than it normally did. It was a sign that he was distracted, not making the conscious effort to push down that boy from Missouri. The nurse left without another word, leaving the two of them alone once more. They were always alone together.

"You okay there, buddy?" Cliff asked, only half-joking, but Rick didn’t seem to hear him. When not inebriated, he had this sort of grace in his movement, taking gliding steps to resume his position in the chair by Cliff's bedside, smoothing back his hair with his hand.

"Francesca left in the middle of the night."

That's...not what Cliff was expecting. This was nearly two weeks following the hippie attack. According to Rick, Francesca was still shaken to her very core when she woke up the morning after, but she had been convinced to stay in LA despite wanting desperately to go back to Italy. Perhaps she took pity on the man she married, on the fact that he didn't have time to show her around and woo her on his own turf before the whole thing was savagely disrupted. But unless you were Cliff Booth, your resolve when dealing with one Rick Dalton was not infinite.

"Did you two have a fight? What happened?" Cliff pushed himself up against his pillows to give his friend his full attention.

Rick absentmindedly rubbed his palms against jean-clad thighs and looked a bit lost. Knowing Rick, whose mood could shift violently at the drop of a hat, Cliff figured he'd be more upset. He had been upset over things far less than this, so the lack of emotion was completely foreign and almost disturbing. Cliff chose to remain silent until Rick was ready.

"Well, w-we were on the couch last night, just watching whatever. I haven't been, uh, s-sleeping well lately, and I started to-to doze off." In an effort to feign control over his nerves, Rick began to gesticulate. Cliff nodded to show he was listening, filing away the “not sleeping well lately” to be addressed later. "So she suggested I take Brandy and head to b-bed." He paused, swallowing thickly, perhaps past the lump growing in his throat. "So I did, and when I woke up this morning she was fucking g-gone." Rick smoothed back his hair again, reality and panic beginning to set in. He began to bounce his leg up and down, hands shaking a bit. Like second nature, Cliff reached over to give his knee a squeeze, the equivalent of having grabbed his ankle to gently pull him back to earth. Rick sighed and ceased his restlessness, suddenly very aware of his contact with the floor, with the chair. It was a corporeal weight, and his heart sank. He wasn’t dreaming.

Even when lying in his very own fucking hospital bed, Cliff put Rick’s well-being first. That was the dynamic they built their relationship on. Cliff took care of Rick, even when Rick made the task extremely difficult. And Rick was selfish, blaming it on his neurosis but did, at times, try to mitigate when he had the capacity. But something told Cliff that wasn’t going to be the case this time.

"Did she say anything, or..." Cliff trailed off, trying to coax more out of Rick, to gauge just how bad it was going to be. Rick sighed again, looking down to stare at his lap, stalling.

"She left a note," he relented quietly. "She w-wrote that I had treated her well, but this wasn’t working out."

Rick _did_ treat those he liked well. Practically spoiled them, gave them attention. He was charming in those ways, but it was typically buried deep beneath layers of conceitedness and self-loathing. You had to touch Rick's heart in a very special way to get him to flip the switch and treat you like that. Cliff was surprised it didn't happen with more people, Rick wore the damn thing on his sleeve, the sensitive fool. Nevertheless, Francesca had earned that privilege, that distinction, but had no idea what or who she was getting into. Rick was a load that few could handle, including himself some days. Most people took him in small, digestible doses, even then only barely being able to stand him. Only Cliff, and now Francesca, knew what it was like to be around him constantly, and it was not an easy practice. And Rick knew that, too, and also despised it. Self-fulfilling prophecy.

"Does she want a divorce?"

Rick shook his head. His patience, either with Cliff’s questions or with himself, was growing thin. He knew he was getting himself worked up, launching straight into the answer he wasn’t ready to give.

"A-an ana-an-nn— fuck!" His voice was strained, having jumped up an octave.

"An annulment," Cliff finished for him, flinching internally. It didn’t take a genius to know Rick got deathly embarrassed when getting tripped up by his stutter that badly, and it was usually an omen. Not like Cliff had never witnessed it before. It was like a second language that he picked up during their years of companionship.

Rick only nodded, having returned to staring at his lap. He hated his stutter, and he knew that Cliff knew that he hated his stutter. It was just one item on the list of things he couldn't stand about himself. But he was too proud to see a speech therapist, and it bit him in the ass most days. Achingly, that shameful but familiar burning pushed at the backs of his eyes.

_Don’t fucking cry, damn it! Be a man for once in your goddamn worthless life!_

"Just wanted to get it over with," Rick muttered, still frustrated. He had to fight to regain control of his body. It was ten thirty in the morning, but he was already fucking exhausted. He felt too hot, even in the freezing cold hospital room, despising the sweat beading up under his chest. "After a scare l-like that she didn't want anything else from m-me."

"Trying to forget it ever happened," Cliff posited, and he settled back against his pillows as Rick squirmed in his seat. He supposed he understood the feeling Francesca had well. Except it was everyone else who wouldn't let him forget what happened to him. Everyone but Rick.

"I guess," was Rick's whispered reply.

A bout of intuition fired off in Cliff's brain, a suspicion that was confirmed when he glanced off to the side to catch Rick turn his head as a tear slipped down his cheek. He tried but failed to wipe it away as discreetly as possible, lips locked in a pitiful grimace. The color had returned to his cheeks but not in a good way. It was a combination of Francesca's sudden departure, frustration at his inability to speak, and any other self-deprecating thoughts that were swirling around in his head. Cliff refrained from saying anything, from acknowledging that he had seen Rick’s temporary crack in resolve.

And Cliff almost felt touched, having the feeling that Rick was trying his damnedest to stay calm and keep himself together for Cliff’s sake. _Cliff_ was the one in the hospital, the one who put his life on the line for them both. But he was also the one getting sprung in less than twenty-four hours, and the one whose wife didn’t just walk out on him in the middle of the night. He admired Rick’s attempt to not flood the conversation with his own problems out of respect for Cliff’s. But ultimately, Cliff didn’t want it to happen at the expense of the validity of Rick’s feelings. Cliff knew he wasn't anywhere close to being done tearing himself to pieces over this. Rick pursed his lips before barking out a dry laugh that was void of humor.

"I was so stupid. Another m-mistake to add to my list of fuck-ups."

Cliff was a man of action, but that was limited at the moment, all things considering. He’d have to relinquish his physical control in favor of his words, but this had the added challenge of having to tread carefully. This was a bomb defusal. He needed to deescalate the situation, to find that equilibrium. But every attempt died on the back of his tongue, and he was suddenly unsure if that had ever happened before in the ten years they'd known each other. And it was odd. You’d think this was something they’d be able to discuss easily, now having shared in the experience of suddenly being spouseless. Yet, none of the combinations of words Cliff strung together felt right. So he said nothing at all.

Rick had grown quiet, retreating far, far into himself, only sniffling here and there. He thought Francesca had loved him, and he thought he had loved her back. But the past twelve hour’s events only succeeded in feeding his confusion, sifting through them over and over again in his head. It left him reverting back to what he considered to be one of his only true talents, and that was to question everything. It kept him from excelling in school, and now it kept him from being able to fully process just what had happened with proper discernment.

All his questioning, no matter what it had been about, always led him to the same answer. He was an average student. He was an average actor, even failing to meet that threshold some days, in his opinion. And he guessed now that he was an average husband. His conclusion was that Francesca wanted more than average, deciding he wasn’t good enough and left in the middle of the night to avoid an altercation. How considerate of her.

After this hasty inferential leap, Rick’s need for validation finally overcame his shame, and he turned back. Cliff could see the inquiry growing in Rick's eyes, red and irritated around the edges. He decided then that he had kept him waiting long enough and that this drastic turn of events required a bit of damage control.

_Shit, man. Give your boy some respite, will ya?_

Cliff held up a hand before Rick could even open his mouth, sparing him the need to ask for the tenth time.

"Alright, Rick. I'll come stay with ya."

Apparently, those were the perfect words, as you would've thought at the way Rick's whole being seemed to light up that Cliff had solved world peace or cured cancer.

"Really?" In an instant Rick's face broke into lines as he beamed, and, fuck, it made Cliff weak. Maybe it was his dimples, or how his cheeks got so round at the top, or the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. The TV executives and directors always wanted smolder to accentuate his features. It better suited the black and white film cameras they used. But Cliff always had the opinion that Rick was more beautiful when he smiled, a thing Cliff wanted all to himself. A thing no one else on earth had earned.

Cliff also held the opinion that Rick was beautiful when he was asleep. The golden rays danced across the contours of Rick’s face, relaxed and at peace that only comes with truly restful sleep, a commodity that used to be rare for the both of them. A soft snore emanated from him periodically, it being the only sound in the room.

Their nights went much like they used to with mild takeout and booze consumption, Rick bringing up the possibility of quitting. The thought of what more could’ve happened That Night because he was hammered scared him too much and he was tired of his dependence. Whether he chose to or not, Cliff assured him that he’d have unfailing support, and that was to be both anticipated and appreciated.

Or taken advantage of, they’d just have to see.

Regardless, Cliff rejoiced in not having to pack up when the night was over, and he had to admit that it was much more pleasant to merely take a traipse down the hallway when it was time to hit the hay.

When Cliff and Brandy moved in, the arrangement was completely platonic in intention. Rick kept the guest bedroom furnished to the same standards as his own. Cliff had his own bathroom. The sheets were soft and clean. Rick didn’t even mind if Brandy slept on the mattress with Cliff. As far as Rick was concerned, the old girl had earned it. Once Cliff closed his eyes at night, he could almost imagine that he and Brandy were still in his old trailer behind the drive in, which he realized he hasn’t set foot in once in over six months. Maybe that was Rick’s plan the whole time, making sure that Cliff came directly to his house to lower the chances of any minds being changed. But the first morning Cliff woke up in an actual bed and not a cot of some kind cemented in his brain that he wasn’t going anywhere, damn it. It was the best he’d felt in a long time and he wasn’t about the give that up.

Rick cleared his schedule to be with Cliff constantly, neither of them mentioning that it wasn’t a hard schedule to negotiate out of. With Cliff’s hip and Rick’s exhaustion, the hours were long and lazy and comfortable. It was to be a while before the heat diminished, keeping them inside most of the time. Both of them were thankful for cool, leather furniture and television that was in English, and Brandy having spent two weeks at the Dalton’s turned her into even bigger of a lapdog than she was before. Although she missed Cliff terribly, she’d taken quite the shine to Rick and laid sprawled across his lap in his recliner.

“She loves you more than me,” Cliff pouted during a commercial break. He laid stretched out along the length of the couch in a way that kept the TV and Rick within his line of sight.

Rick only shrugged lightly, gently massaging behind Brandy’s ears affectionately. She huffed and closed her eyes, head lolling over the armrest.

“It’s easy,” he mumbled confidently around the cigarette in his mouth. Glancing to the side, he caught Cliff’s cocked eyebrow that suggested, _Yes, go on._ Rick smirked to hold back the laugh climbing up from his chest. “Bitches love me.”

This earned an immediate scoff as Cliff folded his arms defiantly.

“Oh, shut the hell up, jackass. You stole my dog from me because you spoil her, and I’ll have that thick head of yours for it.

“It’s y-yours for the taking,” Rick chuckled. The words flowed from him easily, and Cliff became aware that this was the most relaxed they’d been in months.

“Is that a promise?”

When night fell, they conceded to retiring to their respective rooms, Cliff’s right next to Rick’s. Their two beds were essentially headboard-to-headboard, and each night brought with it the rustling of blankets and sheets as Rick tossed and turn incessantly. It was a song that would eventually lull Cliff to sleep, doing so for a couple days.

He tried, once, asking Rick why his nightly routine consisted of him rolling around for a good hour before finally falling asleep. It did harken back to the hospital visit when Rick mentioned he wasn’t sleeping well, but he too easily deflected the question.

“Oh, well, y’know me. Can’t sit s-still and all that.”

Cliff didn’t bother asking for any elaboration on that, but he knew it wasn’t true. Rick absolutely could sit still, he had demonstrated the ability time and time again. But those were all the times that _Cliff_ had seen Rick sit, not knowing what he was like in his absence. He _did_ , however, know what Rick was like when he was nervous or uncomfortable, and the two instances were eerily similar. But it was only a half-formed thought that quickly dissipated when Rick asked if he wanted any coffee.

Rick kept it up for a week, surrendering hours of sleep in favor of thrashing around. That, and there was a reluctance about him when it was time for bed. Gazes and touches lingered, his words trailing off in the middle of a thought. Although sleeping in was easy for Rick, Cliff had the feeling that the actual falling asleep tended to be difficult for him at times.

For this reason, Cliff didn’t say anything when Rick finally slunk into his room fifteen minutes after they parted for the night, climbing under the blanket without either of them saying a word. It was just understood. It happened a second night, and a third before Rick grabbed Cliff’s wrist and tugged him towards his bedroom when it was time to go to sleep. The guest room hadn’t been touched since.

“Comfortable” seemed to be what kept coming to mind with each additional aspect to their living arrangement. They were comfortable moving in together, comfortable with lounging around all day, comfortable with sharing a bathroom and a bed and personal space.

And Cliff was getting pretty damn comfortable waking up next to Rick every morning, and today was no exception. He was four weeks out from his discharge from the hospital, and already so much had changed between the two of them but Cliff had no intention of turning back.

The sun was all the way up now, and it was getting too warm under the covers. It was time to get up and at ‘em. They needed time to shower and eat, as Rick was to begin meeting with agents about getting back to work. His reasoning being that they needed something else to do in the evenings and script rehearsal would have to do the trick. No matter, Cliff wasn’t ready to get back into action, so he supposed he needed something to occupy his time as well. He also missed being able to drive around, and excitement began to thrum through his body at the prospect.

Cliff sat up, pulling his legs up to his chest agonizingly slow. His hip was still stiff and achey, and each morning meant testing the waters to see what he was up for.

 _Could be worse_ , he thought, shifting himself forward to sit crouched on his knees. Rick hadn’t budged an inch with all the movement, but there was a surefire way of pulling him back to the world of the living if they wanted to get going in time.

Sidling carefully, Cliff delicately swung his leg over Rick’s sleeping form, positioning himself so the actor was between his legs. He braced his hands on either side of Rick’s head, bending forward to kiss him gently. Once, twice, slow and sweet and playful. He felt Rick tense beneath him before relaxing and giving into it. His arms snaked around Cliff’s shoulders before drawing back and fluttering his eyes open. He smiled as Cliff came into focus, their faces so close their noses almost touched.

“Morning, darlin,” Cliff drawled, brushing the bangs back from Rick’s forehead. Even fresh out of sleep, he still was able to leave Cliff a little starstruck. A complete one-eighty from all the times he had to drag Rick out of bed and toss him in the shower. He could get used to easy mornings like this.

It hadn’t taken Cliff very long to start stitching the pet names into his everyday vernacular. Call it compensation for ten years of “buddy” and “partner.” They slipped coolly from his mouth like spring water, and that was better than any ice water bath Rick could dunk his face into.

“Mornin’.” His voice was croupy and tired. He twisted around so he lay on his back, idly running his fingers over the muscles in Cliff’s shoulders. Rick let his hands fall away, stretching them above his head with a yawn.

Cliff rolled off of him and over to the side of the bed to tip his legs over the side of the mattress. He took to his feet, standing with his hip cocked to take the weight off his injured hip.

“Ready to seize the day, Ricky?” Cliff could see the realization cross Rick’s face as he remembered what day it was, and he knew those wheels in his head finally kicked into gear. He was about to throw in some loose affirmations when Rick decided to speak up.

“R-ready as I’ll ever be,” he stated, getting lost in the sensation of rubbing his eyes. Cliff grinned, turning towards the bathroom.

“Good, ‘cause we have about an hour before we’re supposed to leave,” he threw over his shoulder.

“What?” Rick bolted upright, gawking at the bedside clock before scrambling out from under the blanket. “Cliff—shit! Why’d you let me sleep so long?!”

Cliff didn’t answer, laughing before shutting the door behind him and locking it with a definitive click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not *Rick* rebounding into another relationship??
> 
> I too have an ace up my sleeve about Francesca, we're not about to leave that unresolved.
> 
> Sorry, I meant to have this out the other day, but I had to take my cat to the vet. We're just glad the semester's over, fucking finally.


	3. 'cause i made you lose your self-control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd think cleaning the pool was mindless work. And it is, for the most part. But when it opens the floodgate of memories, it's time to think again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO I meant to have this out more around Christmas. Oh well, Happy New Year, y'all. I started mine off literally by re-watching the film on DVD after, like, six months, and realizing that I had gotten some of the details wrong in the first two chapters, haHA. Looking back, we'll just pretend it was artistic liberty and not my horrible memory.
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Self Control" by Frank Ocean.

The rest of the summer passed in a mellow, sultry haze. Seasons didn’t really exist here, not to the extent that Rick was used to, at least. There was no slow descent into frigid cold and ice, only the mild drop in temperature and the occasional rain shower. He never did well in the cold, anyway. Snow stopped being fun once he reached adolescence, and soon growing older only meant that each winter brought with it the swollen stiffness of half-frozen fingers and toes and his father swearing up a storm over the furnace.

Upcoming winters now meant skimming and vacuuming the pool in order to drain it a bit before pulling the cover on, a one-time task that was far less frustrating than tinkering around with a finicky furnace, although tedious. But with both Rick and Cliff working together, it got done in half the time. Devoting one Saturday morning to it allowed them to not have to worry about it until the following spring, no one wanting to swim around in fifty-degree water.

The water wasn’t quite that chilly yet, the air around them was still a comfortable seventy-five, but slipping into the chlorinated blue was still quite a shock that Rick left for Cliff unhesitatingly. Like always, Cliff only shrugged, equipping himself with the pole attached to the vacuum head and entering the pool without so much as a flinch. He began sucking up the few leaves that littered the bottom, any fine sediment blown in by similar breezes.

Rick stood dumbfounded, clutching the skimmer to his chest as he observed the muscles in Cliff’s back ripple under his skin with each pass. The atmosphere immediately around him felt twenty degrees warmer, suddenly having great disregard for his task at hand. He saw Cliff glance underfoot, presumably to see if he had missed anything, but Rick had been caught in his gawking without even knowing it. Cliff did have impressive peripheral vision, the slick bastard.

Cliff only smirked to himself and rolled his neck.

“Are you wanting to drain it right after we’re done or later?” he asked casually without turning around.

“O-oh, I—” There was the hollow clanking, the sound of an aluminum rod being dropped on the concrete. Cliff could imagine Rick, startled, fumbling with it before giving up and pressing his fist to his mouth.

“Uh, l-later, Cliff. No rush.” Rick worked hard to keep the adrenaline-fueled quiver from his voice. The skimmer scraped along the ground as he stooped to pick it up.

The little net swished lazily over the surface of the water, the two of them not saying anything. The silence was periodically interrupted with the rattling _THWANG_ of Rick whacking the soggy leaves off the skimmer. They made short and methodical work of cleaning the pool, smooth, repetitive movements. Rick’s shoulders ached by the time they were done, and he slumped down into a chair and swept his hair back from his face.

“It’s past lunch. Do you want anything?”

Rick looked up to see Cliff part of the way up the ladder, kind of dangling off and gazing at him curiously. His skin was damp with a thin veneer of water beading up across his shoulders and collarbone. His uninjured leg was the one hitched up on the rung, letting his bad one float weightlessly. He had a sure grip on hand bar as it glinted in the early afternoon sun, casting a bright patch on the side of his face.

“Nah, not hungry,” Rick answered with a slight shake of his head. The heat and the work made it so he didn’t have much of an appetite, even if the meal was only going to consist of something light like a cold cut sandwich.

“Alright.”

Again, Cliff shrugged, letting go of the ladder to be slowly consumed by the water once more. His arms moved like the wings of a bird, keeping his head above the water, slow and graceful. He took his time doing a couple laps, allowing Rick to slip inside to grab a book and return to the poolside and relax for a little bit. 

Cliff eventually swam up to the side of the pool, folding his arms over the edge and resting his chin in the crook. He gazed at Rick, who was lounging back in one of the deck chairs absorbed in a novel. His love of reading was endearing, and an extensive collection could be found scattered about his house, always within an arm’s reach. It juxtaposed his rather blunt and brash personality, but Cliff understood that the brashness, most of the time, was an act of self-defense. In privacy, Rick was more than willing to display his soft heart and gentle disposition. Evenings spent on the couch with a book and Brandy curled up in his lap weren’t out of character for him.

And there were a few times where Cliff, after apologizing to Brandy and banishing her to the floor at their feet, would lay with _his_ head in Rick’s lap, who was warm and getting soft in all the right places. Rick would absentmindedly card his fingers through Cliff’s hair, gently pulling at times to massage the scalp. Normally, their roles would be reversed, Cliff nearly insisting upon it in the crusade of keeping Rick safe and as close to happy as he could get. But the way Rick would smile down at him would soothe any of Cliff’s anxious thoughts, reassuring his faint, fleeting desires of wanting to be taken care of by someone else instead of it being the other way around.

This after-dinner ritual was sacred.

Rick didn’t notice his staring, eyes instead scanning the page before him. Summer always lifted the tone of his hair, revealing the boy who used to be blond. Cliff watched as his lips moved silently, reading to himself, then slid his eyes downward to take in the musculature of his arms, peppered with tiny freckles and flexed to hold the paperback up to his face, his chest subtly rising and falling with his breathing—

Cliff could feel his cheeks flushing, both from the glaring sun and the blooming desire beginning to flutter in his belly. But it was much too hot out to indulge in any actions of that nature, so he squashed the feelings down by being a pest.

“So,” he started, voice slicing through the hot, dry air. Rick didn’t visibly react, only humming his acknowledgement. “You gonna join me in here or are you afraid you’ll melt?”

“Cliff…” Rick shot him a warning look over the top of the page like a tiger through the foliage. Cliff only smirked, reveling in his ability to get Rick’s attention so easily. He didn’t fire back an answer immediately.

The imagery of anyone dying a searing, painful death in the pool was too reminiscent of the night that wasn’t far enough away from them yet and was probably distasteful. Still, Cliff found it all too easy to push Rick’s buttons and had become quite masterful at it. All in jest, of course. Cliff could argue that it was because Rick was usually very telling when he was angry. He let people know when something bothered him. Cliff merely knew how to take advantage of that, much to Rick's chagrin.

Rick’s outbursts were also horribly predictable, down to his actions and the words he’d say. If Cliff had it his way, things would go a bit differently when he managed to get under his skin.

In his imagination, Cliff saw Rick snap the paperback shut and toss it to the side. In one swift motion, he’d be up out of his seat, broad shoulders squared and looming threateningly over Cliff’s position in the pool. Maybe he’d abandon Cliff’s old t-shirt— _Wait, has he been wearing that all day?_ —practically slithering into the water and backing Cliff up until he was pinned to the edge and had nowhere else to go—

Fuck, there it was again. The thought gave Cliff a weird tightening sensation in his chest that quickly pooled down into his stomach. Cliff shook his head as if the motion would erase the image from his mind like an etch-a-sketch. He decided to play it cool, hands raised in mock defense.

“Easy, Dorothy. I’m not gonna snatch your ruby slippers.” He didn’t have to see Rick’s eyes to know he rolled them, that crease that appeared between his eyebrows, the barely audible scoff that escaped his lips.

There was a few moment’s silence before Rick muttered, “Jackass.”

“Careful, Dalton. Them’s fightin’ words where I come from,” Cliff droned. He quickly put that lackadaisical smile back on his face. “Anyways, you know I didn’t mean it, lighten up. Just wanted you to join me, is all.”

“Hm,” Rick mumbled, nose stuck in his book again.

Cliff decided not to push his luck any further, taking Rick’s soured responses to be that he was in one of his moods and didn’t want to be teased. A new normal, he had become increasingly irritable as of late. All for a noble cause, mind you.

Rick resolved that he was giving up alcohol and was, consequently, in the throes of withdrawal. He complained of headaches most days, tossing and turning at night, and struggling with the fact that he was surrendering one of his coping mechanisms in the name of healthier living.

Cliff could only sit on the sidelines and cheer him on. If he could, he’d crawl inside Rick’s brain to rewire the pathways himself if it meant Rick would be more comfortable. But Cliff was, admittedly, just a man with only so much to offer, unfortunately. So instead, every evening Cliff rewarded him with something Rick loved more than booze, and that was praise.

Once night fell, Rick would secure himself under Cliff’s arm. His exhaustion from the day gave way to tremors and whimpers, vibrating like a human tuning fork.

“How you holdin’ up, partner?” Cliff would keep his voice low and velvety. Rick’s ragged breathing tickled his neck, the collar of his shirt balled up in a tight fist. Ordinary pain killers were too weak to stop the pounding in his skull. And never in his life had he wanted so badly to beat his head against the wall in rhythm with it in a vain attempt to make it stop.

“Hurts,” Rick would answer immediately, for once not being over dramatic. It was the only thing he’d utter for hours, just wanting to go to bed and hopefully wake up the next morning without having a stroke.

“I’m sorry, hon. But you got through another day. You’re doing so good, I’m so proud of you…” On and on for several minutes until the shaking had diminished and Rick was slumped into his side.

However, for a few hours, from when they woke up to the early afternoon, Rick had grit like sandpaper and a scathing tongue to go with it. And Cliff didn’t particularly want to draw that side out of him, not when their day was going relatively well. He didn’t consider himself to be a genius, but he was smart enough to know when to cut the joke, lest he be turned into _Cliff Booth: The Headless Wonder_ after suffering the wrath of one temperamental actor. Yes, pushing Rick’s buttons was easy, until it spelled out Cliff’s own demise.

 _A wide shot framed Rick and Cliff at the two ends, staring each other down like during the cliched high noon showdowns they’d done time and time again on_ Bounty Law _. The air was so empty and electric, and Cliff didn’t know what he preferred to happen: either one of them moving or being struck down by lightening where he stood._

_The frame snap cuts to a close-up of Rick as his eyes narrow. With the crack of a whip, he’s out of frame, closing the ground between them faster than humanly possible, the audience hearing one of those primal, animalistic stock sounds of a lion or some shit. A close-up of Cliff’s eyes sees them widen in surprise before it’s too late. The camera pans down right before Rick pounces on him, leaving it all to the audience’s imagination save for the sickening, wet, crunching and tearing._

_The camera stays focused on the shot of his waist, completely still before Cliff falls to his knees, his neck a bloody stump where his head once sat, maybe still squirting blood from his severed arteries. His lifeless body finally slumps to the ground. The shot captures Rick’s legs in the background as he walks back towards the house, barefoot and tracking bloody footprints behind him._

_The sliding glass door opens then slams shut as the frame cuts to black. Roll credits._

Shit, he’s been in Hollywood far too long. Even his daydreams took on an over-produced feel. Cliff chuckled quietly to himself as to not elicit Rick’s _“What the fuck’s so funny?”_ as he pulled himself out of the pool, dripping on the concrete before claiming the other deck chair. He grabbed his sunglasses and slipped them on, leaning back and closing his eyes to bask in the sun like a lizard perched on a rock.

After what he estimated to be about twenty-five minutes, Cliff squinted over to his left to see Rick had closed his book and let it hang loosely in his grip, fast asleep. There was a fine sheen of sweat along his hairline, cheeks beginning to turn pink. Cliff smiled and pushed himself from his chair. Stupidly, if he had to guess, he crossed the short distance before bending at the waist to slip his arms under Rick and hoist him up bridal style with a suppressed grunt.

_Please, Lord, let this be a cute gesture of romance and not a complete fucking disaster that ends up with both of us broken and groaning on the concrete. He’d tan my hide if he knew I was doing this._

It dawned on Cliff that it had been a while since he had carried Rick like this, and he was getting a bit heavy, a thought that Cliff would keep to himself. But nothing was too good for his baby, so Cliff resolved that he’d just start lifting weights again. A bum hip wasn’t about to keep him from years of sweeping this man off his feet, literally.

The idea of driving to Van Nuys to pack up his weight bench and move it into the garage didn’t excite him, however. He could always just have Rick sit on his back while he did pushups, or maybe throw him over his shoulders and do squats. Cliff could hear the panicked protests as he’d toss the actor across his shoulders that would quickly dissolve into shrieking laughter as he went down and up with strong, confident squats. Rick liked watching Cliff work out anyway but always declined the invitation to participate, claiming he was never that athletic in the first place.

Cliff hadn’t asked in a long time because of their trip to Italy, everything that had happened afterward, and the fact that he was afraid Rick would now hastily conclude that Cliff was suggesting he was fat. Suddenly, it didn’t seem like a bad idea to make the trip to get his weights and just leave Rick out of it.

But Cliff’s theory that it was time to go inside was confirmed by how warm Rick was, cradled in his arms. Air conditioning was soon all he could think about as he clumsily nudged the sliding glass door open, stepping in and shutting it behind him. The cool air washed over the both of them and Cliff sighed with relief. He maneuvered around the coffee table and momentarily thought about just dropping Rick on the couch to see what would happen. No matter how potentially humorous, he didn’t want to wake the sleeping beast and opted to instead set him gently at one end. Once Cliff’s arms were out from under him, Rick instinctively curled up in a ball and drifted off again, his brain intuitively knowing he was in one of his safe places.

Cliff kept grinning like an idiot as he sat down on the opposite end of the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Rick used to yell at him for doing so but had softened up about it over the last few months (and Cliff found him doing it a time or two when Rick didn’t think he was watching). Brandy shuffled over and twirled around in a few lazy circles and curled up under the two of them. The scene was so soft and…domestic, it made Cliff’s heart ache at the fact that they could’ve been doing this for years. And maybe in a way they had been, but the dynamic, the intentionality behind it was undeniably different. Cliff put his hands behind his head and let his mind wander back to a memory he hadn’t thought about in a long time.

It was just before _Bounty Law_ had its plug pulled, and everyone, the cast and crew, could feel doom floating in the air around them on set. Rick, like a dowsing rod, was highly attuned and ultra-sensitive to it, turning it into a week of pacing and twitching and makeup complaining about the dark circles under his eyes.

Cliff could only guess why, but he was pulled aside the same time as Rick to be given the news of their pending unemployment. It could’ve made sense if you considered Cliff, at that point, to have been Rick’s shadow. That and Rick’s weird, apparent dependence on Cliff was blatantly obvious. Or it could be that they brought Cliff over to act as their own protection from Rick, who typically knew how to stop him from verbally abusing people who were just trying to do their jobs.

At first, Rick had laughed in a you’re-fucking-with-me kinda way, but Cliff knew that it was really to keep himself from crying. And maybe everyone else also knew and were silently bracing themselves for an absolute shitshow.

Trying to hold together any remaining scraps of professionalism, Rick was able to pull himself together long enough to finish shooting what were turning into some of their final episodes, a surprise to everyone including Cliff. When they wrapped for the day, Rick was quiet and it, quite frankly, was scaring Cliff. Where was the actor that would be in absolute hysterics? The one who would be sobbing into his shoulder about how he was finished and would have to pack up and move back to Missouri, but with his stutter and all that emotion make it sound like “misery?” (Both would’ve been acceptable answers.)

Apparently, Rick was keeping that version of himself tucked away in his back pocket but sticking out a little bit, chewing nervously at the skin at the sides of his nails. For one, Rick asked if Cliff could take him home despite the two of them having driven separately. The inquiry was so meek and timid, Cliff was almost forced to oblige.

The drive back was silent, both of them staring straight ahead. The knob for the radio wasn’t touched, the only movement being Cliff turning on the headlights once it grew dark enough. The neon signs lining the streets began to slowly bloom in their synthetic, technicolor splendor. Wind rushed in through the open windows, ruffling hair until it stuck up at odd angles as they swayed and bobbed with the nocturnal traffic. Once they began to climb through the hills, Rick’s eyes stung, and his vision grew blurrier the closer they got to his house.

He trudged up the narrow walkway, Cliff following solemnly but dutifully behind him. But once safe behind that closed door, Rick let out a gasping sob and crumpled to a heap on the floor at Cliff’s feet, folding in on himself like a malfunctioned beach chair. Instinctively, Cliff did exactly what he had just done: picked him up, carried him to the living room, and deposited him on the couch at one end. However, Rick was soon plastered into Cliff’s side as he bawled, whimpering about how he was never good enough and how everything he tried to do always ended in failure. It wasn’t the first time they found themselves in this setup, but this time no amount of bolstering could lift Rick’s spirits. The only thing that stopped his crying was exhaustion and eventual embarrassment.

Soon after it was just them, sitting facing each other on the couch. Cliff, stoic but troubled, and Rick, raw and vulnerable. Cliff wracked his brain but for the life of him could not come up with a way to fix this. They were both out of a job, both feeling lousy and a bit worthless. Very few actors, if any, could jump directly from leading one show into another. That was Rick’s problem. But if Rick wasn’t working, neither was Cliff, so he guessed that it was his problem as well.

Off to the side, Rick subtly began to unfurl his body in what Cliff hoped to finally be relaxation. But Cliff could sense the air around him changing, however, everything feeling prickly and charged like the static that sits on the screen of a CRT television. And suddenly Rick had this…look in his eye.

In an instant he was clambering into Cliff’s lap and grabbing his face, their lips being frantically pushed together, bodies becoming a tangled pile of limbs teetering on the edge of the couch. It was dizzyingly unexpected, stone-cold sober, and completely one-sided.

“MmRick, no—” The words were strangled out from behind his teeth as Cliff braced his hands against Rick’s chest and pushed a little harder than he meant to, sending him sprawling backwards into the cushions. Cliff’s mind reeled as he fought to wrap his head around what had just happened, realizing he was acting on autopilot. Rick stared at him, eyes wide and looking just as confused as Cliff felt before being overcome by shame. His cheeks were set aflame as he hunched over, feet on the floor and head in his hands, fingers in his hair and shaking.

Cliff sat frozen where he was. He liked to think he was a man who was seldom shocked, but this was entirely uncharted territory. A wrench had been thrown into their delicate balance, leaving both of them at a loss for what to do next. As far as Cliff was concerned, his best friend, after a handful of years of decent companionship, had just kissed him. And his gut reaction was to push him away and put an end to it while Rick’s was probably to throw up out of shear dread and mortification. Cliff didn’t know Rick swung that way or liked him _like that_. Or maybe it was Rick pivoting wildly in a fit of manic compulsion as his world was beginning to slip through his fingers.

Surprisingly, it was Rick who acted first.

“Leave,” he stated simply, impossibly quiet. He didn’t move, instead having said it to the floor in front of him. A part of Cliff didn’t think that was the best idea, but ultimately Rick didn’t need to reiterate.

Cliff stood up, knees popping, grabbed his jacket and keys, and started towards the door feeling sickly. Right before he shut the front door behind him, Cliff turned around to see Rick still in the same position.

Were he Lot’s wife, he would’ve been turned to a pillar of salt where he stood. Or maybe he was Orpheus wanting to make sure he still had a Eurydice. No matter which way one looked at it, it was still a painfully human and sentimental thing to do, to look back against better judgment. But Cliff didn’t linger. He heard quiet sobs right when the latch clicked shut.

It had happened right where Cliff sat currently. The thought made him squirm, not enjoying the fact that he was so helpless in that moment, how helpless they both were, struggling to process how they felt and even more afraid to say it. It wasn’t that Cliff _didn’t_ like Rick, not at all. Rick was handsome and funny and kind. He was also the only person in the entire fucking city who didn’t think Cliff was dangerous after the suspicious loss of his wife. Hell, maybe Cliff did have a bit of crush on his leading man back then. It was just a damn shame he didn’t realize it sooner, and an even bigger damn shame that he didn’t pin Rick to the couch and kiss the ever-living daylights out of him back. Rick’s boldness was instead rewarded with shame as Cliff inadvertently blocked Rick’s shot and slammed it back in his face.

They finished filming the remaining episodes, all the while Rick and Cliff avoided each other like strangers. Cliff wanted to think that no one noticed but he was certain they did. He also wondered how Rick got himself out of bed and to the set the morning after that dreadful night with a shattered sense of self-worth and no car. But it remained one of life’s mysteries. After _Bounty Law_ ’s termination, they didn’t see each other for three months.

It was during that time that Cliff found Brandy at a local shelter, the runt of a litter who wasn’t wanted. But she was his saving grace as it gave him something to do and someone to look after, a need that was an unfortunate byproduct of his faithfulness. Jobs were nonexistent, making Cliff contemplate leaving LA, leaving California all together, to find work elsewhere. Preferably a place where no one knew who he was.

But there was this string that kept pulling him back, a four-letter word that he didn’t want to admit to thinking about constantly. He resolved, stubbornly, that he couldn’t leave before making amends with one person. The one who had him wrapped around their fucking little finger.

Oh yeah, “Rick” has four letters, doesn’t it?

Turns out that little, red string needed only to stretch the length of a telephone cord.

“Hello?” A dejected voice answered the line, someone who sounded like they really didn’t want to talk right now.

“Hey, man.” He was met with silence, which Cliff took to being Rick recognizing his voice immediately and totally not immediate panic or debilitating fear.

“…Cliff?”

“The one and only.” Cliff bit back his chuckle that was second nature to him in situations like these. He knew he was trying to swoop in, to weasel his way back into Rick’s life one last time, but he didn’t want to act like it.

“Is something wrong?” Rick sounded worried, nervous as hell, actually, and Cliff grimaced at the fact that Rick had absolved Cliff would only call were he in trouble. He guessed he couldn’t blame him for that, he did have the tendency to drop off the face of the earth if needed.

However, he hadn’t thought about how he would try to dip back into the complicated circle that is Rick Dalton. He looked around his trailer before settling on the sleeping pup in his chair. Rick had a soft fondness for animals. During breaks in filming, Cliff sometimes found him hanging around the horses in the ranch’s stables, petting them or brushing them. Brandy was the perfect bargaining chip, a token of peace.

“No, nothing’s wrong. I got a new puppy a few weeks back and was wondering if you wanted to see her.” Cliff was expecting yelling, an argument, tears maybe.

What he wasn’t expecting was a soft, “Okay. When?” A smile curled at the corners of his mouth.

“You doing anything tonight, partner?”

That evening, with Brandy and a six pack in the passenger seat, Cliff drove back to Cielo Drive for the first time in months, nothing having changed. When Rick answered the door, Cliff was a little surprised. He looked tired, thinner. But that’s what a suspected diet of whiskey and cigarettes does to a man, Cliff supposed. Brandy danced around their legs, excited to be let into this brand-new environment.

“Hey there, buddy,” Cliff greeted.

Rick gave him a once over before smiling a bit and opening the door wider to let them in. Brandy turned around and around before jumping up to put her tiny paws on Rick’s thighs, actions and playfulness suggesting, _“Friend?! Friend?! New friend?!”_ Cliff whistled a signal for “down,” and after three attempts Brandy obeyed and plopped down on her hind end, still panting enthusiastically. Rick bent down to let her sniff his hand and rub her soft ears.

“What, uh, what-what's her name?” he asked, clearing his throat. The rubbing turned to scratches, causing Brandy to roll onto her back with delight, making both men chuckle.

“Brandy. She’s a sweetheart,” Cliff answered, crouching beside the both of them.

“I can tell. You love your scratches, don’t you?”

By this point, Brandy was a wriggling ball of fur and happiness, soaking in all the attention from this new human. The three of them moved the reunion to the backyard, allowing Brandy to do zoomies around the perimeter but having to be stopped just short of jumping straight into Rick’s pool. It was mostly small talk between the two friends, as Rick was more absorbed in playing with Brandy. Cliff didn’t mind that much, it warmed him to see Rick get down and roll around in the grass with her, laughing when she’d pounce on him and lick his face, a behavior Cliff normally didn’t let her get away with. But it made Rick happy, so he let it slide.

He was also right about Brandy being the key to Rick’s lock. When the sky began to turn pink, Rick turned his head, face alight with that dazzling smile, and asked Cliff, “D-do you wanna get something to eat?” And that smile was just for him.

Right then, Cliff decided he wasn’t going anywhere, some sort of litmus test unintentionally being passed. He had his best bud back, the dynamic between them turned right side up again and the rest was history. However, it came to his attention that the two of them still have never spoken about that night. They didn’t bring it up during that dinner, and they didn’t bring it up now.

Off to his side, Rick stirred before waking with a start. Panicked, he looked around him, realizing that he had not only fallen asleep, but had woken up in a different place. Cliff leaned over to put a hand on Rick’s shin.

“Easy, partner. You fell asleep reading and I figured it best that I brought you inside. Didn’t want you getting sunburnt.” At the touch, Rick sighed, pushing himself onto his other side to let his head fall into Cliff’s lap.

“Did you grab my book?” His voice was groggy and sleepy, and Cliff always thought it was weird that Rick never stuttered right after waking up.

“Ah— naw, I didn’t.” He went to get up before Rick waved his hand as a signal to stay seated.

“It’s fine, we can get it later. Jus’ wanna lay here.” Cliff smiled at that, settling back into the cushions and combing his fingers through Rick’s silken locks.

“Still tired?” he asked. Rick hummed his affirmation, eyes half closed again. “That why you’ve been grumpy all day?”

“P-partly. M-my head’s fucking killing me. ‘M sorry.”

“You can’t help that, darling. Don’t be sorry for trying to break a habit,” Cliff reassured.

He let his hand glide down Rick’s body to where he grazed his ribs with his fingernails, foreshadowing the evening’s arrangement. This, too, brought on another memory, this one far less painful. If what happened after _Bounty Law_ was their first kiss in theory, then what occurred just a few days into their newfound domesticity was what Cliff considered to be their first kiss in actuality.

It was a week and a half after he was released from the hospital, and after years of taking care of Rick and his antics, Cliff was finally getting the favor returned. Rick was completely deferential to his needs, for once unconcerned with his own problems. And, perhaps, he felt safer around Cliff. The one night between Francesca leaving and Cliff coming home had been terrifying and sleepless, and Rick had been glued to his side since. The past few nights had been the beginning of them sleeping in the same bed.

It was late in the evening. Dinner was eaten, pajamas changed into, and Rick was exhausted. But having Cliff in his house full time— _full time! He fucking lives here now!_ —made Rick a tired but very happy man. He sighed contentedly and sat leaned against Cliff’s shoulder, the latter of whom had his feet kicked up on the damn coffee table, but Rick couldn’t care less. They watched the TV through half lidded eyes, and Cliff decided it had to be now or never. He just couldn’t wait any longer.

“Rick?” he mumbled tiredly.

“Hm?” The younger man looked up, prepared to be given another task.

Their fate, if you believe in it, was finally about to be sealed. Even after the stumbling and the mixed signals and getting turned around, Cliff was going to stake his rightful claim, desperately hoping Rick felt the same way.

He curled his index finger under Rick’s chin, drinking in his features for a moment before capturing his lips in a soft kiss. Rick stilled for a split second before smiling into it, reciprocating. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t deep or passionate. But when they parted, there was a lightness about both of them. That same zero-gravity feeling you get when you finally get what you've wanted for so long.

Cliff could’ve sworn entire galaxies were placed into Rick’s eyes in an emotion that he’d never seen before, pupils blown to an unbelievable size in the dim light. Everything about Rick had a flair for the dramatic, part of why he was so alluring. Cliff had never felt this way before, not even with Billy, not with anyone. It was equal parts exciting and terrifying, but that described just about everything that they had ever done together.

Rick looked him up and down in a silent request. In response, Cliff spread his knees farther apart as the silent invitation.

Slowly, unsurely, Rick climbed into Cliff’s lap and straddled his hips. The nervous energy persisted, Rick not knowing where to put his hands. The motions were familiar to Cliff, falling back into an easy demeanor, an old role. But part of what contributed to Rick’s anxiety was being placed into a new position that was foreign to him. He was usually in Cliff’s place, always with a woman. He had no experience with being on top for a change.

He had no experience with making out with a guy, either, yet here they were.

Cliff chuckled knowingly and took Rick’s wrists and placed them around the back of his neck. There was a butterfly-like grazing across his skin as Rick laced his fingers together, thumbs finding themselves a home on the boney processes behind Cliff’s ears. Strong, calloused hands then roamed lazily until they found themselves anchored securely at Rick’s waist. Cliff delicately slid his thumbs under the hem of Rick’s shirt to massage at the points of his hips but ventured no further. He had a firm grip on the reins and felt no problem leading in this situation.

He encouraged another kiss, just as slow as the last one but deeper. Noses were bumped as they leaned their heads in their opposite directions, a calibration of sorts. Rick’s thumbs fell away, fingers untangling and fanning out across Cliff’s traps, like the feathers of a bird of paradise. His hips, now locked down under Cliff’s palms, were hitched closer. Closer, they needed to get closer—

They both broke it off in perfect synchrony, dizzy and gasping for air. Rick was holding onto Cliff’s back for dear life while his heart pounded mercilessly. He touched his forehead to Cliff’s, closing his eyes while his body shuddered. He needed to know, lest he get hurt _again_.

“Cliff?” he asked, breathlessly. He paused to swallow. Nine years were about to be set straight. “…Do you love me?”

It was finally released out into the universe, and he couldn’t even bear to have his fucking eyes open when it did, preparing to be tossed like a goddamn sack of potatoes. _Oh, God!_

“Yes,” Cliff stated simply, his breath dancing over Rick’s lips.

_Houston, we have motherfucking lift-off._

Rick's heart soared, its pace picking up again in excitement and fear. This couldn't be happening, this couldn't. Be. Happening.

Cliff picked up on Rick's change in energy, going back to rubbing his hipbones to quiet Rick's nerves and to also delay what he was about to say next. A beat, then, “Do you love me, Rick?”

He forced his eyes open, locking gazes with Cliff, whose eyelids drooped like half-moons. This close, deep-set wrinkles were more defined, and Rick would see clearly the expansive blue and green nebulae surrounding Cliff’s pupils.

Everyone’s made of stardust, right? Rick could believe that now. So much of nature was reflected in the man before him, it was unbelievable. Even if it wasn’t true, what everyone was made of, Rick would still make an exception. Cliff Booth was absolutely made of fucking stardust.

Rick huffed lightly, almost nuzzling further.

“Always have.”

At that, Cliff laughed gently, giving Rick a little peck before wrapping his arms around him. Rick followed suit, laying his head on Cliff’s shoulder, hands splayed over his shoulder blades. It was quiet now, that tired haze spreading back out over them. A syndicated episode of _The Twilight Zone_ buzzed around them, casting flickering shadows about the walls.

“I could take real good care of you,” Cliff mumbled unexpectedly, massaging at the small of Rick’s back.

Rick pulled away slightly and stared at him in a way that was almost unnerving, becoming completely transparent. Everything that Cliff did for him played back in his mind. It was labeled “boss” and “gofer,” having extended too far beyond the lengths of doing something here and there for a friend in need. But even the people who love their job hate it sometimes. Cliff never gave that impression, even saying that he liked doing those things. The more Rick thought about it, the clearer it became that it was never about the money. Nobody would’ve stayed around that long if it had been. Suddenly, the line between “gofer” and “lover” became terribly blurred.

Cliff did those things for Rick because he loved him, plain and simple.

“You already do,” Rick whispered, finding himself on the verge of tears. His expression softened, the tension absolving just as quickly as it appeared. He placed his own kiss on Cliff’s jaw before rearranging himself so that he was curled up more in Cliff’s lap. “Th-thank you. For-for everything.”

And it happened exactly where they sat now. It had been so easy to slip into a relationship because, goddamn, they already had one, really.

It started as a smile Cliff couldn’t help, then an honest to God _giggle_. Brandy’s ears perked up, but she remained where she lay on the floor, not understanding why she wasn't getting to sit on the couch with her two humans. Interest piqued, Rick resumed his usual position, snuggled into Cliff’s side, grinning slightly.

“W-what the fuck’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Cliff laughed. "Just thinkin'."

He put his arm around Rick’s shoulder and squeezed him close. The sun had really drained the both of them, he was feeling ready for a nap as well. Pool be damned, maybe it’ll get done tomorrow. Cliff whistled sharply, causing Brandy to jump to her feet and launch herself onto the couch and into his lap like a fur-covered, heat-seeking rocket. Now pinned on both sides, he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.

Oh yeah, the pool was definitely waiting until tomorrow.

“Rick?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

"Love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas, is it gay to kiss your buddy on the lips??
> 
> And look, another chapter told almost entirely in flashback. These also keep getting longer, and that was totally not the plan lol. It's just that upon revision I find that I have so much more shit to say. This chapter was actually supposed to have more dialogue at the end. So, if it feels like it ends abruptly, that's why. I'll find another way to work that conversation into the story because it needs to be had. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. walking tall, machine gun man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peculiar shift in the weather spurs a cascade of events that lead Cliff to realize that silent suffering hurts more people than just himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeeeww, sorry this took forever. The new semester started back up, and we had extreme ~writer’s block~ trying to put down into words this idea that I’ve had for months now. But we did it, so yeehaw. I hope y'all like it!
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Rooster" by Alice In Chains.

There are two things you need to know about Cliff Booth: he dreamt infrequently, and he hated the Fourth of July. The two might’ve been related, but he never wanted to allocate that much brain power towards it, like how quickly you drop the mystery of a bruise you don’t remember getting. The past was in the past and come what may or some shit. Cliff just wanted to live in the present.

He had grown up with the traditional masculine sentiment that the strongest thing to do when you were hurting was to bottle it up and to never speak of it to anyone. It was a frustrating patriarchal heirloom passed down to each successive generation, so much so that it was practically ingrained into his DNA by the time his deadbeat father shot Cliff into his mother. Even as a boy, he doesn’t remember crying much, lest he get popped in the mouth for even sniffling over a skinned knee. That was the way it had to be, and he accepted it.

Came in handy in the army, admittedly. When men dropped like flies every day, you didn’t have time to cry over them. Instead, a novel type of mourning was forged, silent and cold in its acknowledgement of the spilling of innocent blood. Dog tags were collected like the nickels in a child’s piggybank and young men went from breathing to existing only in the mind’s eye, forever youthful, finally immortal four hundred years too late for Ponce de León.

_“You know, you’re kinda pretty for a stuntman.”_

Sure, whatever. Cliff stopped arguing with them a long time ago. Several years’ worth of scars allowed him to flip the assertion on its head, saying he was too banged up to be an actor. Little did they know that Cliff was far more comfortable stunting, anyway. He was tired of acting, a lifetime of pretending that things didn’t bother him giving him a coin with easy riding on one side and cynicism on the other.

Then, along comes Rick, who managed to sidestep all of that growing up. It only seemed fit that Cliff would be paired with a man who was opposite him in a lot of ways. Rick _was_ pretty enough to be an actor. He cried easily. And even on his down days he still at least tried to hold tight to that elusive optimism, no matter how foolish. He did have to sign up for the draft on his eighteenth birthday thanks to FDR, but to Cliff’s retroactive relief, Rick’s number was never pulled for that morbid lottery during the war in Korea. And they were now both too old to be of any use in Vietnam, according to the government. Fine by Cliff. He’d been out of it too long to even consider going back if given the chance. He’d hate to even contemplate the implications of leaving Rick to engage in combat overseas. He risked himself not coming back _and_ not having a home to come back to if he did.

If he was to spend the rest of his days driving Rick around, then he figured he had finally reached that point in his life where he was okay with that. Rick had, at least. And where Rick went, Cliff followed, giving him all the time in the world to get lost in thought, and occasionally into trouble.

He did eventually confess to Rick what had happened that day at Spahn Ranch, who was rightfully horrified and furious.

_“You gave that hippy bitch a ride where she offers you goddamn ro-road head, and then let those motherfuckers slash the t-tires on my car. What-what the hell got into you?”_

Cliff could only shrug at that, then was given the stern warning of, _“Don’t let it happen again.”_

That roughly translated to, “If you’re in the Cadillac at a fucking stoplight, don’t interact with the strangers on the goddamn sidewalk. Got it?”

He certainly did, not wanting to risk being demoted to sleeping on the couch. Cliff didn’t need to be told twice, and contentedly went back to running errands for Rick (which were more and more becoming errands for the both of them.)

Bus stops. Aversions to fireworks. The witnessing of horrors too gruesome to imagine. All of it swirled around vaguely in his mind, wrapped up in a tight coil that sat heavy laden below Cliff’s sternum and following him from day to night.

In some far away part of his brain, he thought he registered the sounds of explosives, like mortars. Except, these were too heavy, too rolling and persistent to be the likes of those that caught the attention of adult and child alike midsummer. And it didn’t match the scenery that currently surrounded him.

Everything felt oddly familiar, déjà vu’s cousin, perhaps. The sun was shining, beating down on everything not fortunate enough to be in the shade. Cliff was seated in the Caddie at a stoplight, waiting for an unusually long time. But where was he going? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t recall how he even got here. Rick wasn’t with him in the passenger seat, but he thought he smelled cigarette smoke, so he must’ve just dropped him off at his audition and was heading…downtown? No, that didn’t feel right either.

But Cliff actually didn’t care. The unknown task heavily cemented in his mind didn’t have nor need specifics, he just knew he had something to do and knew how to do it.

To his right sat a young man on the bus stop bench wearing army fatigues. He had dusty blond hair and a strong jaw but kept his head down. His right arm ended just below his elbow, still wrapped up in that hasty fashion indicative of a VA hospital. A duffel bag laid on the ground between his feet, and his continually ran his finger over the crease of a heavily folded piece of paper.

Young men were being sent off in droves and returning just as quick with parts of themselves missing, the seen and the unseen. He must’ve been waiting to hop on a bus to finally return home, him somehow having fulfilled his duty to his country. Maybe he had a wife and a baby, or maybe he was the baby shipped off from someone else’s wife.

Behind Cliff stirred a commotion of a honking car horn and several voices yelling unintelligibly. The slapping of sandals against the concrete revealed a girl running up, making a show out of hawking back and spitting on the seated man. It hit him just below the eye, but he showed no visible reaction other than hesitatingly reaching up to swipe it away with his fingers.

“Baby killer!” the girl screeched loud enough for everyone around to hear, being pulled back towards the car by presumably one of her friends. Both of them laughed horribly, probably no older than twenty.

So much for “free love.” That movement was killed along with psychedelia by Dylan in December of ’67 after he didn’t want to hop a ride on that magical mystery bus tour. And who could blame him?

From behind his aviators, Cliff stared quietly, unnoticed. The only indicator of any emotion was a firm-set frown, but he remained calm and steady. He had no real, immediate feelings toward what he just saw, for a minute thinking that he was just fine with that. Yet, he continued to stare, waiting to see if anything else would happen.

He could neither agree nor disagree with conflict in Vietnam. The hawks and the doves and the whatever winged whatnots could write entire dissertations on why their argument was correct, blind and deaf to opposing sides. To Cliff, war had simply become one of the facets in which the world worked. At least, that’s what he thought. Though, the whole thing could’ve just been to save face.

That’s all Cliff ever did, save face. Whether it was his own, or someone else’s.

A car horn blared again from behind him, the light having turned green a millennia ago. Still, Cliff remained where he was. _Something_ was beckoning him to stay, waiting to show him something.

A cacophony of horns filled his ears, being consumed swiftly and effortlessly by a low rumbling, like the earth was being driven up all around him by a heady force. The young man still had his face turned away, as if he didn’t have one at all. A faceless name fighting for the good ol’ US of A.

On Cliff’s own cheek there sprang up a warm wetness, making no effort to address it. He waited and waited, the boy slowly beginning to lift his head—

And everything came to a halt with a deafening _BOOM!_

Cliff’s eyes snapped open, everything dark and uncomfortably warm. He blinked rapidly, trying to get his vision to become accustomed to the lack of light.

Eventually, the ceiling of Rick’s bedroom faded into view. He groped around him, taking up fistfuls of sheets, thoroughly dampened by his sweat. The pounding of rain against the roof became recognizable to him, slapping itself down in sheets in a torrential madness. Late December, this was LA’s chosen winter precipitation. Even then, it was fickle and rare enough to discombobulate just about everyone after becoming habituated to the sunshine. Turns out, Cliff was included in that.

His heart was beating a little too hard for his liking, trying to pry unseeing eyes from the irregular peaks and craters of the spackling before him but he found he couldn’t move. Flat on his back, he was stuck in an invisible casket, a distressing weight sitting heavy on his ribs. The room then was briefly alight with a stuttering flash—the precursor to the violent crack and peals of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundation their humble abode sat upon.

Having been thrown back into darkness, Cliff’s eyes flicked around the room. Both the bedroom and the bathroom doors were shut. The curtains were drawn. Brandy laid curled up at the foot of the bed, completely undisturbed. Nothing was breached, nothing was out of the ordinary.

Yet, he couldn’t calm his fucking nerves, having nothing but the sky and a fucked-up service record to blame.

Painstakingly, Cliff turned his head to scope the other side of the bed, the only control he had over his body being above the shoulders. This was going to be a long night.

Rick was on his side with his back to Cliff, his breathing slow and relaxed, only an arm’s length away if Cliff could muster up the strength. Rick had fallen asleep with his head on Cliff’s shoulder but must’ve gotten too hot at some point in the night and rolled over.

He was also quite the heavy sleeper, and it made Cliff think about all the ways Rick tried to distract himself from the problems he let plague his mind. Sleep, copious amounts of alcohol—all of it was to drown out the noise, to momentarily unsubscribe from his own life, even if just for a few blissful, unconscious hours. They’d have to talk about that sometime, that need to hide, but Cliff really wasn’t confident in Rick’s ability to open up about it. Not yet, at least.

Regardless, Rick’s propensity for sleep meant no storm would ever wake him. He had told Cliff the stories about the tornadoes that painted the skies of his hometown green each summer, they just as Missourian as he was, estranged siblings. Thunder, rain, the howling wind. All were familiar to him, having a reverent respect for the weather and fearing many things except Mother Nature. It was an old friend to him, so why wouldn’t Rick approach it with a warm hug and peaceful doze—much like how he acted around Cliff. If he was able to sleep through a few dozen twisters ravaging the surrounding farmland, then the puny thunderstorm cells that were scarcely summoned over southern California were a piece of cake. And Rick liked sweets.

For Cliff, however, thunder and rain were terribly bothersome and quickly thrown into that category of phenomena that he wanted to avoid at all cost. Perhaps, once, they used to be calming and comfortable to him. But combat turned him into a man who preferred the desert. Hot and barren and quiet, slightly unsettling.

Really, it was just another way he and Rick were different. Rick was loud and demanding and emotional, a real pay-attention-to-me type. Cliff stayed on the down-low for the most part, like a dust storm, only brandishing infrequent but quick and violent spats that were calculated to him but a surprise to everyone else. And when everything settled again, it was as if nothing had changed. He preferred to keep everything on an even keel while Rick was easily swayed by the waves. But very little prepared him for when the roles would have to be forcibly reversed.

Right now, Cliff felt like the sun had gone down on him and everything was frozen and unforgiving. Cold-blooded, he was forced to resign to the biting frost and lie completely still. He had no burrow to retreat to, only blanketed by the expansive, inky blackness with its little pinholes, explosive warmth unfathomably far from him.

He could wake Rick, just for the sake of not being so alone in his distress. Rick wouldn’t have to do or say anything, he just had to be aware, just had to be _with him_ in whatever the hell this was. But a nagging thought raked the back of Cliff’s skull, how it would somehow be unfair to Rick, to drag him unsuspecting into the consequences of his bullshit trauma.

Then again, that’s what Rick did to Cliff, to the point where it wasn’t unsuspecting anymore.

Though, Rick was sleeping soundly, and he tended to be quite grouchy when woken up from the rest he considered precious. There was one night, years ago, when Cliff had gotten stupid drunk alone in his trailer, and feeling affectionate (or ornery, he couldn’t quite remember), he gave Rick a ring around three in the morning. The thing is, Rick had also been drunk as hell, having gone to bed two hours prior. That call went down in Cliff’s personal history as one of the foulest moods he ever found Rick in, halfway between smashed and sober, slurring together a rainbow of cuss words while Cliff cackled like a hyena on the other end of the line. It had been the first time Cliff ever lovingly called him “Richard,” and if they had been in person, Rick almost certainly would have eviscerated him on the spot but had to make do with his words.

The following morning Cliff tentatively asked Rick why he was so vehemently against his full name being used. For one, AFTRA recognized him as _“Rick”_ Dalton, thank you very much. And secondly, he added more quietly, the only person who ever used “Richard” in the tender sense was his mother, and he wanted to leave that part of him in the past.

 _“Besides, I-I’m Rick, you-you know. That’s who I am, th-that’s who_ you _know me as.”_

Remembering Rick’s sheepish, little smile that he gave him, Cliff decided that he’d let Rick sleep.

Mechanically, he sat up, the covers pooling at his waist before lowering his legs over the side of the mattress. He had been on his own his whole life, so he’d just have to work through this just like he had all the other times, the only way he knew how.

He couldn’t bear being within sight of the window. Each flash of lightning burned its way into his retinas, swiftly followed by claps of thunder that seemed to rattle his teeth. All the while the rain continued to pound down in its dull, constant roar. Beads of sweat pricked at his hairline, and he could feel the beating of his heart at every pulse point. Cold, he needed to get somewhere cold.

Cliff slid downward until he was seated on the floor with his back to the bedframe. The air was cooler here, a slight breeze seeming to waft out from under the bed. He tried to massage at his temples with the bases of his palms but was soon only digging hypnotically into his skull. Closing his eyes, covering his ears—none of it ever worked, only compounding the dread that weighed down his entire body. It allowed his mind, in the darkness, to run wild, conjuring up old memories mixed with malevolent daydreams. Every nook and corner of his existence, from the folds in his brain to the tips of his toes were filled with noise, obnoxious and persistent and droning as he stared straight ahead at nothing. He could’ve sat there a minute or his whole life, it didn’t matter to him and wouldn’t matter to him. Indefinitely, this was his everything.

Had he actually witnessed what played out in his dream? The sights—the afternoon sun, the light at the intersection, the bus stop, all of it was recognizable. He knew exactly where it was, driving by there multiple times a week, his mind hijacking the fact that Cliff _was_ going to drive Rick to an audition in the morning.

It felt so real, but so does every dream. So real that you’re convinced, in those few short moments, that you’d have to permanently adjust to the outcomes of whatever batshit crazy shenanigans your dream self got into. And you never once question it until you wake up confused in your bed, but you’re just as quick to wave it off as nothing.

This particular dream was sticking around like gum on the bottom of his shoe. And just how it would microscopically hinder each step, everything about Cliff’s body just felt _off_ in some way. Each breath got stuck momentarily, his lungs feeling just barely connected to the rest of him, like they were free floating in the empty cavern of his chest. But why? It wasn’t like Cliff was the one getting spit upon.

He had begun to reason that most people pushed his veteran status to the wayside in favor of the more tantalizing affairs that surrounded his identity. Although he never did it in front of Cliff, Rick had the tendency to throw around the term “war hero.” Most people just thought it was easier to slap “creepy” on Cliff in response. That's how they navigated the industry, them against "most people."

Apparently (supposedly) killing your spouse was more egregious than this so-called “baby killing,” so Cliff wasn’t even worth the spit to cough up.

But what if there was no wife killing or baby killing? What if Cliff and this nameless young man were merely labeled haphazardly, unwanted by the general public and left to the degradation of time. Then, Cliff had to wager a guess that the two were actually the same, and the dream turned out to be a grim mirror of not only what was happening in the world, but also the current state of his own self-image, which apparently had seen better days.

He always was pushing Rick to see himself in a better light, and now the universe was returning the favor. And the last thing Cliff ever wanted to think about was himself.

Somewhere above him was the rustling of sheets and a familiar cough. Nails lazily scratched in slow semicircles against the bedding before coming to a halt, being replaced by infrequent patting. The subtle sounds of someone looking for a body that wasn’t there anymore.

Rick propped himself up on his elbow, his chest jolting with softer coughs trying to dislodge the phlegm sitting in the back of his throat. He blinked the blurriness from his eyes but found he was alone in bed, and he was not about to be okay with that being the case.

“Cliff?” he mumbled tiredly. Rick pushed himself up straighter and scanned the room. No light shone out from under the bathroom door, and he couldn’t hear any other sounds than the storm raging outside. Not like he would’ve been able to hear if anyone had been doing something in another part of the house anyway. Huh, he must’ve not been paying attention to the weather report that day, he didn’t remember that it was supposed to rain. Even so, this was a bit more intense than the region was used to. And although he would’ve slept through it, his bed was now built for two and he wanted to keep it that way.

He went to reach for the bedside lamp when Brandy perked up at his feet. She whined softly and set her head down on her front paws, her whole body pointed towards Cliff’s side of the bed. Rick rolled onto his hands and knees, crawling slowly until tousled blond hair appeared from over the side of the mattress. There Cliff sat totally still with his head in his hands, his face between his knees. Instinctively, Rick put his arm out to tap him on the shoulder, then thought better of it. He had seen Cliff go into weird trances like this, but they weren’t together then. Rick always justified not inserting himself into the situation because it felt like the overstepping of boundaries. And Cliff probably would’ve done the same for him had Rick not pulled Cliff into it all those years ago. Guilt oozed into the pit of his stomach, mingling with his worry, and Rick resolved that he needed to get to work before he had his own spiral.

Gingerly, he climbed out of bed and crouched down next to Cliff’s form, not knowing why he was creeping around other than it just felt right. Brandy began to get up from the bed, but Rick stopped her by holding up one hand. She settled back down but her ears showed she was still alert, ready to spring into action.

Rick positioned himself in front of Cliff but went completely unnoticed. Balancing his weight on one outstretched arm, he ghosted his fingers over Cliff’s knuckles.

Cliff flinched violently and snapped his head up in a panic, brain scrambling to focus on what was touching him. Before him came Rick’s heart shaped face, pale in the low light and fraught with concern. That wasn’t right, Rick should be asleep, Cliff tried so hard to make sure he was _asleep_ —

“Cliff?” Rick asked again, whispering this time. “What’s wrong?” His voice had bottomed out, husky with a little bit of vocal fry. It was something Cliff usually found to be a bit sexy, but current circumstances were preventing him from being able to appreciate it at all.

Another flash, another clap, and all Cliff could do was twitch, feeling nothing even when sitting across from the one he loved. He wanted to say so many things, to explain himself—he had to. Rick was used to strong Cliff, he was used to steady, assured Cliff who could manhandle his way out of anything. But he wasn’t _supposed_ to talk about this, wasn’t he? He didn’t _want_ Rick to know about it whatsoever. But he already betrayed himself by not being in bed the one night when it decided to storm.

These were things buried deep down in his soul that were crying out, but Cliff couldn’t hear them. It just left him feeling ill and uneasy as they stretched out their arms, shifting back and forth on their feet as they waiting to be seen.

But Rick, darling Rick. He knew them well, already calling out their names as their heads kept bobbing beneath the waves of a restless spirit. And he did so with such a simple turn of phrase:

“Come back to bed, honey.”

 _Honey_ , Rick’s seldom use of terms of endearment, sliced right through to that churning whirlpool of despair and flooded Cliff’s joints with warmth. He collapsed forward into Rick’s arms, his own falling uselessly into his lap, wanting only one thing in this world and that was to be held. He breathed in the lingering remnants of Rick’s cologne, realizing that this is what _home_ smelled like after years of claiming that he was a wanderer, that he didn’t have a home. Rick’s hands, gentle explorers, glided over the knots in Cliff’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Cliff felt his chin, all the way up his jaw into his ear, brush scratchily against Rick’s stubble, enjoying the irritation because it was the first feeling taken in by his senses that he didn’t absolutely deplore. He wondered if this is what Rick felt when he needed comforting. If it was, Cliff understood fully why he did it.

Rick put his hands to Cliff’s face, cupping as delicately as he did with his mother’s china, letting his thumbs rest against those pronounced cheekbones. There were no tears to brush away, but the face is intimate. And being allowed to touch, if just for a moment, was like being granted entrance to their temple, fingers and lips the silent passwords to such an honor.

Affectionate grazes then ran their course down the sides of his neck, over the hills and valleys of his shoulders, and caressing down to his elbows. They were connected, the energy flowing from Rick’s palms and seeping through to Cliff’s tired muscles, his eyes full of patience. Rick threaded his arms through Cliff’s, secured under his armpits, and hefted the both of them up from the floor. He deposited Cliff on his side of the bed before crawling in after him.

Sitting propped up against the headboard, Rick recollected Cliff into his embrace, sighing a bit when Cliff returned the gesture and laid with his head on Rick’s chest. Faintly, he could make out the gentle but faithful _lub-dubs_ of his heart. Further away, air wooshed in and out of his lungs. To these, Cliff grabbed onto and clutched tight, devoting every ounce of his attention to the subtle signs of Rick’s vitality.

Brandy shifted around restlessly at the foot of the bed. Her humans were normally both asleep at this time of night, and if something was wrong, she wanted to be involved. So, she whined once more and laid at attention, earning a sad smile from Rick.

“It’s o-okay, sweetie,” he reassured softly, but Brandy wasn’t convinced. Usually, it was her first human cradling her new human in his arms like that. To subdue her, Rick wiggled his foot back and forth to scratch her side, as she loved physical touch just as much as he did. “Lay down, please.”

Brandy did as he said and put her head back down with a huff, then closed her eyes as he continued to massage her ribs. For a few minutes, that’s where everyone laid in the quiet sphere they had created. Intertwined, the two men settled into the dip that ran down the center of the mattress, evidence of the years Rick spent sleeping by himself. Thunder persisted, growing fainter as the clouds continually rolled overhead. But Rick could still feel the barely perceptible squeezing from Cliff with each boom, a simple but telling pattern.

So, he bent his neck and rested his temple on the crown of Cliff’s head, his fingers combing hair behind his ears. Cliff’s had grown longer in the past four months, a little role reversal from where they were in the summer. Rick found he liked it a lot, it looked good on Cliff. It looked natural, streaked with a bit of gray. The thought of having his own silver fox did send him over the moon. Maybe getting old wasn’t going to be so bad.

With the next lightning strike, Rick found the little crescent-shaped scar on Cliff’s forehead, pressing his lips to it for the duration of the sinister rumbling, embracing the calm that followed with the softest of kisses, like his mother did when checking for fever.

Every peal after that was met and capped off with a kiss. He had no power over the volume, over how long they were going to have to sit like this. But what he liked about Cliff, what he admired about him, was that he didn’t need much. He was easy to satisfy, and Rick liked being able to do that for him. Even on the days where he felt like he wasn’t enough. Just substituting sensations, touch for sound, love for fear, slowly lulled Cliff to a state of ease and he could lay there with his eyes closed as the weather started to shift outside.

After a while Rick breathed deep and turned his head to rest his cheek. He was getting tired again and hoped that Cliff was beginning to feel the same way. The tenseness of his arms and shoulders had relaxed, his whole body succumbing to dead weight.

“Thank you for being able to drive me tomorrow,” Rick mumbled. His voice buzzed in his chest, Cliff feeling it against the side of his face as it tickled the inside of his brain. “I don’t-don’t think I s-say that enough. Wouldn’t be where I am without ya.” He didn’t let much time pass before adding more. “I saw that you picked up Oreos when you went to the store—”

Cliff knew what Rick was doing. His own version of a lullaby, he was using something he loved to do—talking—to try and get Cliff back to sleep, for once not annoyed at being ignored. If he hadn’t taken the time to relieve Cliff of his paranoid stiffness, it wouldn’t have worked. But Rick had, in his own way, tenderly released those safety valves, and the tension escaped his body like steam. Cliff didn’t have the energy to smile, but he snuggled closer and imagined himself sinking fully into Rick, whose voice started to get farther away.

“—and it m-made me so happy, because you remembered that-that they’re my favorite…”

Like clockwork, Cliff awoke again around five-thirty. It was still dark outside and would be for a while still, but everything was calmer and quiet. He hadn’t gone back to sleep so much as just taken a nap. Though, it was still better than the alternative.

Above him, Rick was slouched over, the awkward positioning making his breathing noisier. Just looking at it made Cliff’s back hurt. He untangled himself, guiding Rick back onto his side and pulling the covers up to his shoulder. He set the alarm for six before starting his morning routine in the bathroom.

He took his time in the shower, allowing the hot water to wake up and loosen his sore muscles but his thoughts were still foggy, much like the mirror clouding over. With no windows, the bathroom had shifted into a weird liminal space, nothing felt correct. It was too quiet, every sound reverberating sharply back into his ears. One shampoo bottle slipping out of his grip surely would’ve awoken the entire cul-de-sac. Filling the humid air was a subdued energy, tired but electrifying and kind of sickening. Cliff felt himself merely going through the motions while his mind spun around and around like a turntable, ultimately going nowhere. But there was nothing to do except continue moving forward. The one thing he would’ve been aware of had he stopped was the aggravating passing of time.

Towel around his waist, he was finished still way before Rick was set to wake up, closing the door to ensure the shower would still be warm for him when he did. Cliff silently dressed himself, throwing the used towel into the hamper and giving Brandy a scratch behind the ears. She squinted her eyes and pushed her head up into his hand, unmoving as she chose to watch over Rick until he was up. That was normal, her over-protectiveness for him.

“Alright,” Cliff murmured. “Just come get me when you want to eat.” He began to walk towards the door before stopping and turning back. “And bring him with you,” he added, pointing a finger at Rick.

With that, Cliff finally left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen. He lit a cigarette, it dangling out of the corner of his mouth while he fished a frying pan out from the cabinet. The coffee was started, the warm aroma of its roast filling the air. It was followed quickly by the scent of whatever residue was stuck burning to the stove, and he made the mental note to scrub the burners the next time they cleaned the kitchen.

A second round of toast was toasting, and eggs were sizzling away in the skillet by the time Rick announced his presence from halfway down the hall by hacking up a lung, Brandy following at his heels. He was stubbornly rubbing the back of his neck as he appeared from around the corner. Despite being freshly showered and shaved, he felt like he had been hit by a truck and put his head in his hands at the table. Brandy veered off to take her rightful spot on the couch to await her turn to be fed.

Coffee in hand, Cliff made his way to Rick’s side.

“Mornin’, hon,” he said in a good approximation of his normal morning peppiness, giving Rick a kiss on the forehead and placing the mug on the table in front of him. His thumb found the back of Rick’s neck and pressed firmly, still warm from the residual heat of the beverage and pulling a groaning hum from the back of his throat. “Hungry?”

Rick nodded and lifted his head, having to blink against the bright lights. Cliff gave him a final pat then returned to the stove to load up two plates. But the back of his head tingled as he felt he was being stared at. He turned around and pretended to think nothing of it, setting his and Rick’s breakfast down on the table without a word.

Rick had his head up now, wedged between his palms, and followed Cliff’s movements unblinking. Chilling, it freaked him out a bit. Rick wasn’t a morning person, but this silent, unwavering attention from him was unpleasant, a bit threatening. Inching closer to being fully awake, Cliff was certain Rick was going to want to bring up what had transpired in the wee hours of that morning.

For now, Cliff just wanted to avoid it, lying to himself that it was because he didn’t want them to be late, not because he felt like he couldn’t explain himself. He went back to the cabinets and pulled down two cans of Wolf’s Tooth, looking over his shoulder.

“Well? Gonna dig in?”

“With what? My hands?”

_Shit._

In his disguised unease, Cliff had forgotten to give him a fork. He pulled two out from the drawer in front of him, leaving it slid open to cross back over to the table. The back-and-forth movements were becoming too much like pacing, adding to his paranoia. He tossed his head back, getting caught up in juggling the tension and attending to Brandy’s food—

_God DAMN it!_

—And effectively slamming his hip into the corner of the jutted-out utensil drawer, rattling the silverware rather noticeably. Cliff squeezed the edge of the counter with his left hand to avoid crying out and grabbed the can opener with the other, setting it down jerkily and ramming the drawer shut with more force than necessary.

Making quick work of Brandy’s bowl, he nudged it back into place with his foot and clicked her signal. The little kitchen was filled with the sounds of sloppy euphoria, and Cliff took his seat with a huff.

“You a-alright?” Rick asked without looking up. He had both hands wrapped around his coffee mug with his elbows still propped up on either side of his plate, forgetting his table manners. The inquiry had a weird, muffled effect, Rick not having said it to Cliff but into his cup, quickly silencing himself with a sip, eyes down.

“Never better,” Cliff deadpanned, a bit irritated. He took his fork in hand, seeing that the only thing Rick had done with his was pop the yolk on his egg. A creamy yellow lava flow, florescent against the stark white finish on the plate, it rubbed Cliff the wrong way. He watched as a little lemon-drop colored tear slowly dripped from the upward-turned tines, plopping unceremoniously back into the little river sprung from perfectly fluffy whites. One bite was taken from the toast nestled beside it.

The joints on Rick’s hand, the one with its first three fingers slipped through the handle, had the knuckles pushing hard against the surface of his skin, almost to the point of shaking. His other hand was completely relaxed, seemingly only there for show. It was a silent frustration, and under the table his knee was probably jostling up and down, half out of control of his own volition.

And yet his coffee was just _so_ interesting, wasn’t it?

“Oh, for Chrissake, just _spit_ it out already,” Cliff commanded, the hammering of his fork down on the table accentuating the affliction in his tone.

Rick finally looked back at him, putting the mug down on the table with a slight tremble at Cliff having raised his voice. He slowly curled his fingers into his fists and set them down in his lap.

“Ask. I know you want to,” gentler this time. He wasn’t angry at Rick, didn’t want him to think that. Instead, the anger was toward the conversation they were about to have, a bearing of souls.

Well, maybe he was a little angry at Rick. He had been so loving and careful the night before but had now transformed into a totally different person, almost feeling awkward at the prospect of extending that tenderness into the daytime. He better than anyone should know the fucked up nature and persistence of the outward expression of inner turmoil.

 _No, he doesn’t. Because you never_ told _him. And now he’s having to come to grips with you being just as fucked up as he is._

“W-why didn’t you wake me up?” One eyebrow was up and suddenly it felt like they were the only two people on the entire planet.

What? No _“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”_ Or _“Why did you never tell me just how big of a pussy you actually are?”_ Or _“That was some of the weirdest shit you’ve ever pulled, cut it out?”_

Rick was always full of surprises. Still, Cliff stumbled to find his words.

“You woke yourself up, what does it matter?”

“The fact that you didn’t,” Rick retorted immediately, dead serious.

“You—” Cliff cut himself off. He didn’t like the feeling of being backed into a corner, so he had to push Rick into one. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“And just w-what about it wouldn’t I under-understand, Cliff?” Rick still had his arms in his lap but was leaning further over the table, at the moment not really caring just how dangerously close his necklace was to falling into his food. He was taken over by that instinct to be physically close in debate.

Cliff sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, not out of defiance but more to keep his guts in place. Deflection only works if you let it. Sometimes Cliff let Rick get away with it, sometimes he didn’t. But Rick was nosy and stubborn, and pretending that they were on two separate pedestals wasn’t going to work. But the vulnerability was leaving him empty.

Somewhere off to the side, Brandy’s nails ticked quietly against the tile then disappeared altogether as she shuffled over to the sliding glass door.

“I-I need to know how you feel. Because this emotional m-mightier-than-thou card is fucking horseshit.”

He didn’t fail to pick up the quiver in Rick’s voice, and the whole thing couldn’t have been more serendipitous.

Cliff dissociates due to a bad dream and a damn thunderstorm. Cliff wants to tell Rick about it, but doesn’t, wanting to leave him out of it. Rick finds out anyway because, of course he would. Rick comforts him simply but effectively. But the next morning, Cliff tries his best to be unaffected, and Rick calls bullshit.

It all fed back into Rick’s insecurities. And unbeknownst to him, he got straight to the bottom of Cliff’s apparent distrust. Because given the time to obsess over it, he came to a conclusion: _“I’m not afraid to be open with you. Why won’t you do the same for me?”_

The root of it was truly selfish. Rick called it a “mightier-than-thou card,” pissed off by the idea that Cliff thought he was better than him when it came to things like emotions and feeling emasculated by Cliff’s actions. To Rick, he was choosing to not let him in. Which, in a way, Cliff did do that. Rick was a heavy sleeper but one rough shake to the shoulder would’ve woken him up with a snort, and they could’ve gone from there instead of making a whole show out of it.

The whole thing made Cliff laugh lightly under his breath and Rick’s face fell, distressed at the fact that he wasn’t being taken seriously.

“This isn’t a-a-a joke, Cliff! Are you even listening to me?” The volume of Rick’s voice followed his body, both rising sharply. He splayed his hands out on the table and took a domineering stance, not afraid to glare at his partner. But he was so easily quelled by Cliff’s regain of composure, supplemented with the steady look given by him.

“Relax, Rick.” Cliff glanced at the clock. They needed to leave in fifteen minutes. “Don’t squat with yer spurs on.”

Rick let out a frustrated breath but sunk back down into his seat. Cliff’s ability to both rile him up and soothe him was incredibly annoying, that Cliff had that much of an effect on him. The cowboy expression only made it worse.

“We’re just…we’re so different.” Cliff pushed his plate aside; everything was cold anyway. “We grew up different. We don’t approach anguish the same way.”

Rick was still frowning but he nodded. What Cliff said didn’t need any additional clarification. The fact that that was the case was the whole reason they were talking at all. Cliff sighed, tipping his head back towards the ceiling as he gathered his words. Groaning slightly, he brought it back down to be able to look Rick in the eye.

“I’ve lived my whole life with everything right here,” he stated, cupping his fingers in front of his sternum. “It was never okay to talk about pain, let alone express it.”

Rick felt something creeping up his spine and he swallowed thickly. Cliff probably didn’t mean it, but he felt called out and it made him blush. Cliff noticed, only furthering the point.

“Now, don’t go working yourself up. I didn’t say the way I am is right or the way you are is wrong. I’ve wrestled with this shit for years and I’m over it. But it’s just…” Cliff shrugged as Rick continued to stare at him warily. “It’s hard.”

“O-of course it’s hard,” Rick grumbled, realizing that his pendant had been drug through the yolk of his egg. Cliff stood up to tear off a paper towel and press it into Rick’s hand. He took it without thanks and continued, “You’re f-forgetting that losing your shit over something stupid isn’t goddamn embarrassing.”

Cliff remained standing at Rick’s side, hip cocked with his hand on the back of the chair. Brandy, seeing that Cliff was up once more, pushed herself to her feet and stood expectantly at the door.

“Alright, girl. Just a second.”

He padded over and let her out into the backyard. The sun was starting to creep up now. There were birds chirping pleasantly in the trees, and Cliff just stood in the opening, letting the chilly breeze wash over him. Everything looked the same but was soggy and tired. Twigs and small branches were strewn about the patio and probably all along the roof as well. Maybe they’d have to clean out the gutters that weekend.

Brandy trotted back over to him and he moved aside to grant her entrance. She shook her whole body then laid back down on the couch. Rick wasn’t at the table anymore, perhaps having left to grab his wallet and his satchel. He reappeared around the corner; sunglasses pushed on top of his head.

“Sure you don’t want anything to eat before we go?”

“It’s fine,” Rick replied passively, the vowel sound drawn out slightly. “Don’t w-wanna be sluggish anyway.”

Cliff shrugged, picking up both plates and setting them in the fridge. They’d just have to eat that for lunch when they got back. He followed Rick to the door, slipping on his moccasins and grabbing the keys. His own aviators were tucked away in his shirt pocket, and the two departed after Cliff locked the front door.

Descending from the hills, they let the radio fill in the silence. The roads were still a bit wet, and when the roads were slick, LA natives tended to forget how to drive. It was good that they left when they did.

Rick pulled out his lighter and a carton of cigarettes, tapping one out before offering to Cliff, who refused with the shake of his head. Rick lit his absentmindedly and pocketed everything once more.

Just going through the motions. But the air was still uncomfortable, stuffy even with the windows down.

Cliff pursed his lips, then flicked the radio off.

“How do you do it?” he asked before Rick could object to the quiet.

“Pardon?” Rick looked at him from over the tops of his shades. He really did look good this morning, and Cliff wished he told him that.

“How do you just… _let_ yourself…?”

Rick frowned as his brows furrowed. He felt horribly confused, not enjoying the feeling so close to having to prove to some showrunners that he was right for a role.

“What the hell are you talking about? How do I _what_?”

They slowed to a stop at a red light, Cliff ignoring the bus stop next to them and staring straight ahead. He had to admit that his wording was clumsy, but he really didn’t know how to ask his question without upsetting Rick.

“How do you just-just let yourself be vulnerable?”

Up went those expressive eyebrows. But they really didn’t finish their earlier discussion, did they?

“I-I dunno. Always been, I guess.” They fell back into silence, taking off again. Rick wanted to focus on his audition, but he wouldn’t be able to if they didn’t put this to bed. “…Guess it’s because I trust you,” he added suggestively, and Cliff scoffed.

“Rick, you know that’s not fair.” The man in question rolled his eyes and didn’t try to hide it. “I trust you, and you know it.”

“Then why didn’t you wake me up last night?” Rick’s tone was hostile, what Cliff recognized as hurt, but he didn’t answer. “L-look, I don’t know wh-what happened to you in the war, or-or anything else between then and wh-when we met. But whatever the-the _consequences_ of that may be, you gotta trust that I-that I care for you.” _That I love you._ “I’ll understand.”

Cliff couldn’t help how he tucked his chin towards his chest, feeling a tad awful. Rick exhaled a little aggressively and turned away again.

“…Promise?” Cliff asked softly, bashful.

“Of course.” They were speaking in hushed tones, the hum of the road constant beneath them. “Why would I lie about that?” Rick glanced back at him, seeing Cliff’s right arm rested on the center console. He reached over and laced their fingers together. It was one of the few times where it was safe to hold hands. They both relaxed back in their seats, finally content with the agreement they reached.

They were almost to the studio lot when Cliff piped up again, still curious about one thing.

“How did you know my dream was about the war?”

“I didn’t,” Rick answered concisely. “I didn’t know you had one last night, you never t-told me.” He was looking at Cliff again but without any malice, eyes widened with that worried line in the center of his forehead.

“Then why’d you bring it up just now?”

“Just had, uh, a f-feeling, y’know? You never talk about it.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Do _you_ want to?”

Cliff paused to flash both their IDs to the security guard at the entrance before being waved through. He swung into a parking spot and killed the ignition. Taking off his sunglasses, he was able to get a good look at Rick, who stared back expectantly. He then smiled warmly.

“You’ll make an honest man of me yet, Ricky.” Cliff brought them together for a quick kiss. “We can talk more later. You look great, now go get ‘em, cowboy.”

At that, the world was turned right side up again, and Rick grinned brightly, giving him a finger gun before opening the door. Cliff handed him his bag, which Rick shouldered before climbing out of the car. He stopped briefly to light another cigarette, then felt good enough to saunter off towards the offices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neat, a Cliff-centric chapter. There's a lot written about Cliff supporting Rick, and we love that. I hope y'all don't mind me flipping the script. Relationships are a two-way street, and I *needed* Rick to return some of that tenderness. Fingers crossed that it came off alright. 
> 
> Also, all your comments have been so sweet, they just brighten my day tremendously! Thank you so much! <3


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